The Girlhood Of Shakespeare's Heroines

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THE

GIRLHOOD

OF

SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES

nr

A SERIES OF TALES

BT

MARY COWDEN CLARKE.

AUTHOR OF THE CONCORD ANCB TO SHAKESPEARE.

7IB8T 8BBIB8.

NEW YORK :

A. C. ARMSTRONG & SON,
714 Broadway.

1887.

PREFACK.

If ever Preface were especially needful, it is snrelj so in the preseni
instance, to state an explanatory word concerning the design of the work,
and an exculpatory word touching the choice of its subject.

The design has been, to trace the probable antecedents in the history
of sonie of Shakespeare's women ; to imagine the possible circumstance!
and influences of scene, event, and associate, surrounding the infant life
of his heroines, which might have conduced to originate and foster those
germs of character recognized in their maturity, as by him developed ;
to conjecture what might have been the first imperfect dawnings of that
which he has shown us in the meridian blaze of perfection : and it wai
believed that such a design would combine much matter of interesting
speculation, afford scope for pleasant fancy, and be productive of enter-
tainment in the various narratives.

Although little or no attempt will be found in these tales to give
pictures of the times in which their chief actors may be supposed to have
lived, yet it is hoped that no gross violation of probability in period,
scene, or custom, has been committed. The development of character,
not of history, has been the intention. In the case of the early historic
personage who figures in these biographic tales — Lady Macbeth — namei
and facts have been used ; but with as little regard to their strict place
in history, as was paid by the poet himself, who took the story from the
old chronicles, and modelled it after his own fashion.

If it be borne in mind that ail climax in incident and sentiment was
to be carefully avoided throughout these stories, — inasmuch as thej are

-rh±s On

YXC8-DXQ-J

9 PRBFAOS.

merely preliminaries to catastrophes already ordained, — the obstacles in
the way of giving them startling features of romance will be understood.
The aim has been to invent such adventures as might be supposed to
color the future lives ; to place the heroines in such situations as should
naturally lead up to, and account for, the known conclusion of their sub-
sequent confirmed character and after-fate ; in short, to invest each story
with consistent and appropriate interest.

I would also remind my indulgent readers (and may mine be such !),
when they find me venturing to make Shakespeare's people act and
speak, that here, his women are in their girlhood^ — these are their
** sallet days," when they are ** green in judgment," — immature, — but
the opening buds of the future ** bright consummate flowers " which he
has given to us in immortal bloom.

My exculpatory word — my word in extenuation — is this. I beseech
my readers to believe that love, not presumption, prompted the sabjeet
c»f this series of stories : —

Not mine the sweetness or the skill.
Bat mine the love that will not tire ;
And, bom of lore, the ragoe desire
That spnrs an ImitatiYo will.

^ In Mmnoriam,^

Shakespeare himself is my voucher that

Nerer any thing can be amisa
When slmplenesB and duty tender It;

And what poor daty cannot do,
Noble respeet takes It in might, not

CONTENTS.

PORTIA ; THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT, . 0

THE THANE*S DAUGHTER, 91

HELENA ; THE PHYSICIANS ORPHAN, 17S

DESDEMONA; THE MAGNIFIOOS CHILD,

UEO AND ALICE THE MERRT MAIDS OF WINDeOB,

PORTIA; THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT.

TALE I

PORTIA, THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT.

** If two gods shoald play some heavenly match.
And on the wagor lay two earthly wom«i.
And Portia one, there mast be sometbing else
Fiwn*d with the other ; for the poor world
Hath not her fellow.**

MerckatU ^ Fm<0&

Iv the XTnivereity of Padaa were, once upon a time, two fellow-
■tndents, who entertained for each other a more than asually lively r^
gard. This regard seemed to grow out of a peculiar sympathy of feel-
ing, which sometimes exists between two lads of like age, though of dis-
similar conditions; for one of these students was lively, ardent, and
prosperous, while the other was calm, reserved, and very poor. But
though Guido di Belmonte revelled in every good gift of fortune, — was
the son of a rich Italian Count, and the ittdulged heir of a fond father,
y€t his prosperity, instead of injuring his nature and rendering him im-
perious and selfish, did but make him frank and generous, with a strong
capability of enjoyment; while Bellario, the other student, the less fa-
vored of fortune, — being the child of a retired officer, possessed of little
but his honorably acquired wounds and an unblemished name, — found
cheerfulness in a sedate, reflective habit of mind, hope in the thought
of achieving renown in the future employment of his talents, and enjoy-
ment in the present epoch of study and intellectual culture. Thus it
came that these two young men, each earnest in his enjoyment of

6 pobtia;

btudcnt-life, found sympathy exist between them, attachment arise and
strengthen, and a warmth of friendship ensue, which burnt with a steady
and kindly glow while life endured.

During this youthful period of his life, there was one point on which
Bellario's well-ordered mind and careful study did not lead him to a
true wisdom. They might have taught him that poverty was no shame,
that the practice of frugality and self-denial was a virtue rather than a
blemish in a young man's conduct, and that it was due to the nobility
of friendship to have no reserves upon such matters; but the sensitive
pride of the young collegian shrank from the avowal of his slender
means, and the secrets of his penurious dwelling were coyly guarded
from all eyes.

His friend Ouido, in the plenitude of his own resources, had no sus-
picion of the real motive that held his fellow-student silent upon all
that referred to home topics, and domestic relations ; and it was rather
from a desire to enjoy Bellario's society during the present season of
holiday and relaxation, that he always invited him to spend the vaca-
tions at his father's seat at Belmont, than from any idea that he was
thus procuring his friend an indulgence in luxury and refined entertain^
ment, which he could never otherwise have an opportunity of enjoying.
Delightful were the intervals thus spent together by the two young meD.
The sense of entire leisure, rendered doubly grateful by previous labor;
the freedom of action and open-air sports, after a long course of sedentary
pursuits ; the repose of mind in contrast with its late strained exertion,
— all these enjoyed amidst a scene of rural beauty, voluptuous retire-
ment, and tasteful magnificence, pervading the domain and household of
a wealthy nobleman, conspired to make these vacations seasons of unal-
loyed gratification to our two students. Arm-in-arm they would saunter
. up and down the avenue of lordly Belmont, whiling many an hour in
eager converse. Here, beneath the cool umbrage of those thick-spread-
ing trees, secure from the noontide blaze of oven an Italian sun, they
would discourse pleasantly of their books, their courses of study past
and to come, their treasured lore, their increasing thirst for knowledge
with every freshly-acquired draught, their present lest in seeking, their

THB HBIBBS8 OF BELMONT. 2

fiiture hope of profit Here, too, in the scarce less radiant splendor of
an Italian moonlight would they speak confidingly of heartraspirations,
of high-reaching schemes for distinguished manhood, virtuous lifoj
rational happiness, and trusted immortality. The young Count, Guido,
would dilate, in all the gay tenderness of an uncorrupted heart* upon
the pure joys he proposed to himself, when he should at some future
day hring a fair bride to share with him the beauties of his broad do-
main ; when ho should dwell in loving communion with a womanly
heart ; when he should emulate her in fostering kindness to the neigh*
boring poor; when they should partake in the gentle duties of tending
the helpless infancy, and implanting goodly principles in the youthful
breasts of their offspring; and when together they should live and die
in sweet mutual help.

And in his turn, Bellario would playfully declare that he would live
And die a bachelor, wooing and wedding no other bride than Justice,
who was his professed mistress. That he meant to win honor and re-
nown at the bar, and that he intended to make his name famous among
the lawyers of his time. That such a celebrity as he aimed at, was only
to be attained by the devotion of a life-long assiduity to his task, and
that he therefore must early resolve upon excluding all claims of love
upon his thoughts, dedicating them wholly and undividedly to ambition.
Time wore on ; the old Count of Belmont died, and. young Guido
inherited the paternal estate. Yet still he lingered at the University,
unwilling to quit the sweets of study, and the associations of boyhood,
or to curtail the season of youth by assuming the prerogative of man-
hood. In the academic shades of learned Padua he still tarried, well
pleased to remain constantly with his friend Bellario, who studied unre-
mittingly to qualify himself for his intended profession.

Shortly after the time when Guido di Belmonte wore mourning for
his father, Bellario's suit bore sable marks that he also had to deplore
the loss of some relation ; but as he alluded in no way to the nature of
his bereavement, so no allusion to the subject was ever made by hi«
fellow-students; not even by his friend, who was accustomed to observe
silence on those points on which Bellario did not speak first There

B POBTIA ;

was frank commanion between the joang men upon most themes of
pleasant converse ; bat, as before remarked, personal concerns and home
relations were never referred to by the young law-student, being mattet
sf his most scrupulous and proud reserve.

At length a season of vacation occurred, when, npoi^ the young
Count^s usual invitation to Bellario, that he should accompany him tc
Belmont, the friend refused; without, however, alleging any reason for
this refusal beyond the bare fact of its being out of his power to in-
dulge himself with the pleasure of going, on this occasion.

** But why not, caro mio ? " urged Guido ; " you have surely no en-
gagements so imperative as to interfere with the one so long understood
between us, — that you should spend every vacation at Belmont, beaati*
ful Belmont; now all my own, but which will scarce seem so without
my friend to share its beauties with me."

Bellario wrung his hand gratefully, for all reply, merely repeating—
** I cannot ; do not urge me."

^ But I must, I will. How is it that I, the lord of Belmont, am
to be thwarted in my dearest wish ? Come, good Signor Avocato, give
me an infinity of reasons why you * cannot.' Let us have some of your
^special pleading here, to satisfy me. I know not why I should be con-
tented with your sovereign * cannot • without farther explanation, any
more than why you are prevented from coming to Belmont when we
both wish it. Or do we indeed both wish it f ** added he, smiling in his
friend's face; "are you tired of Belmont? Confess, if you are; and
we will exchange the shady avenue and solitary terrace of our country
life, for the gay revelry of Venice — her masques, her feastings, her
torch-light merry-making."

Bellario met his friend's look with one as frank as his own ; — ^ Bel-
mont is to me, as it has ever been — the scene of my best enjoyment
The disappointment is as great to me — nay, far greater — ^than it can b«
to you, my generous friend ; be assured, I need no urging, when my
own desire to be with you pleads so powerfully ; but in this case, you
yourself would be the first to—" then checking himself he brieflv
added, ** once more, I repeat ; believe me, I cannot."

THS HSIRS88 OF BELMONT. 9

^'Id this case! ^ qaickly repeated Gaidp; in his eagerness forgetting
how nearly he was transgressing the bounds of discretion in thus cate-
chising his friend beyond what even such friendship as theirs might
warrant : — ** In this case ? It is a point of honor, then I A quarrel f
A duel ? " But seeing Bellario shake his head, with a solilc at his
ardent questioning, he ran on with : — ** No, no, of course not ; had it
been so, you would have had me for your second — but how then } No
friend has so good a right as myself to engross your company, and to

no friend will I yield you — mind, to no But stay;" added he,

interrupting himself, as a sudden thought struck him : *' though to no
friend, no man, can I give yon up, yet it may be that ^

He stopped ; and laying his hand on his friend's sleeve, laughed
out — " Ah ah I Signor Avocato, fairly caught I So then the stern an-
chorite, the bachelor student, the devoted bridegroom of the law, the
destined spouse of Justice, is actually the thrall of some fair lady ; and
it is a mortal woman, after all, who has these claims upon your time,
and prevents your going with me to Belmont. I cry you mercy, caro
mio I "

Bellario's face flushed crimson to his very brow. He no longer met
his friend's look as before, yet he still smiled, though gravely ; and he
grasped Guido's hand in a firm conclusive manner, as if he would close
all further discussion. *' Be satisfied, dear friend ; it may not be.**

Guide di Belmonte warmly returned the pressure ; and his generous,
frank nature permitted no wounded feeling at his friend's reserve, to
mingle with the regret with which he now withdrew his suit, and bade
him adieu until they should meet again next college term. But on the
following morning, while pursuing his solitary way towards Belmoqt,
accompanied solely by a faithful attendant, who followed him on horse-
back, he could not help giving way to a feeling of mortification akin to
anger, at being deprived of the company of his beloved friend Bellario
on a journey which had hitherto been so fruitful a source of delight to
them both.

^ It is some whim, some fancied necessity, that thus detains him«^
murmured the young Count to himself, as he rode onwaid ; *' Bellario

10 PORTIA ;

is 80 scrupulous when he conceives some point of right to be in quei-
lion« that he is ever ready to sacrifice inclination to duty. I know hii
unselfish heart, and IMl be bound it is some vexatious claim or other
upon his tinie and aid, which is thus permitted to interfere with our
pleasant holiday ! For after all, though he did change color at my words,
I do not believe it was a woman that he stays for. Had he yielded bis
thoughts to love, and forsworn law, he could not have kept so great a re-
volution in his heart a secret from his friend Guido. No, ho is still
constant to his old adoration for musty precedents, yellow shrivelled
parchments, and time-honored precepts of legislation, over which he will
sit wrapt in enaniored contemplation, hour by hour, forgetful of all this
bright world contains. Fil wager now, that it is in order to waste no
hour apart from the prosecution of this bewitching pursuit, that he
has thought it right to deny himself and me this holiday. He dropped
some words, not long since, to the effect that his progress did not keep
pace with his desires. How came I to forget this, when I besought
him yesterday ? I did not urge him with sufficient warmth. I have a
great mind to turn back, and see if I cannot plead with better effect
He must not, ought not to shut himself up during this charming time.
He will be ill, or moped to death, with his absurd scruples and notions.
Duty, indeed ! It is his duty to enjoy his holiday — to come and pay
seasonable homage to all-bounteous nature, to revel in her beauteous
gifts, to inhale the pure free air, to bask in the glorious sunshine, to
ride forth joyously — to come with me to Belmont, in short! — I will re-
turn, and entreat him once more to do himself and me that right 1 "

As he concluded his reverie, Guido turned his horse's head in the di«
rection whence he had just come ; but he now proceeded at a very dif-
ferent pace from the one which he had previously allowed the steed to
take. Then it had been slow, and accordant with the rider's mind, all
unwilling to pursue his solitary journey ; now it was alert, eager, and
bounding forward on the way to Padua — to his friend Bellario.

On reaching the University, he hastily dismounted, throwing the
rein to his attendant, bidding him wait, while be went to seek one of
the heads of the college, who might inform him where to seek his fel'

THE HSIBE88 OF BSLMOKT. 11

low-student, who by this time he knew would have retarned home. The
professor mused a moment, when the young nobleman made the inquiry ;
but presently said: — ^^'Bellario has always made a secret of his abode,
praying mo not to let it be generally known ; but this prohibition could
not be meant to extend to you, Count Guido, who are, I know, his
bosom friend. It is in the Strada del Popolo,*' added he, indicating a
mean suburban street, leading out of the city, and describing accurately
the house where Bellario dwelt The young man paid little heed to the
former portion of the professor's speech, in his eagerness to learn the
main point, the direction of his friend's dwelling-place; having obtained
which, he took a hasty leave, and set forth on his search, bidding his at-
tendant, Balthazar, saddle another horse, and bring it round with his
own, to a certain spot where he would meet him, and proceed thence to
Belmont once more, in company with his friend, whose acquiescence in
the plan he now felt confident he should gain. So sanguine is youth ;
80 ardent in affection was Guido di Belmonte.

He readily found his way to the Strada del Popolo, and as readily
distinguished the house indicated to him by the professor. He was
slightly struck by its lowly appearance, but no otherwise than as un-
worthy to contain so noble a being as his friend, and merely as an ad-
ditional reason for inducing him to exchange its unattractive precincts
for a more congenial sojourn with himself at Belmont. He stopped for-
ward to put aside the dark heavy curtain, which hung in the doorway,
according to Italian custom, to exclude the noontide heat; but he
paused on the threshold, struck with what he beheld. He saw his friend
seated at a table strewed with books and papers, one of which he held in
his hand, while over the back of his chair leaned a young girl of exqui-
site beauty ; who, with one arm around Bellario's neck, in the other hand
held a pen, with the feather of which she traced the lines on the paper
he held, while her cheek closely touched that of the young law-student,
as they together scanned the document So engrossed were they with
its perusal, that no idea of Guide's presence reached them ; and so ab*
sorbed was he in the contemplation of this unexpected vision, that he
allowed some minutes to elapse ere he became conscious of his intrusiooi

Ifl pobha*

or made any movement to annoance his being there. Many conflicting
feelings rushed through his heart as he stood gazing ; the paramount
one of which was admiration for the surpassing loveliness of the young
girl whom he found in such close companionship with bis friend. The
arm which lay across Bellario's shoulders, was white and polished, with
a rounded grace of outline that would have charmed a sculptor ; the
•lender waist and bended figure were so harmoniously proportioned, that
the garment of humblest stuff which she wore could nowise conceal their
native elegance of beauty ; the head was classically shaped, and com-
pactly braided with smooth raven tresses, surmounting a brow lustrous
with simple purity and intellectual dignity ; while the face that so lov-
ingly neighbored that of Bellario, could boast not only delicately-formed
features, but an expression radiant with gentle goodness.

Amid the confusion of thoughts which held the young Oount motion-
less, was one which prompted him to wonder how those downcast eyes,— -
now veiled with their rich lashes as they remained bent upon the papei^
—would look when they were raised ; and to speculate upon the appeal
those lips would make when parted in speech, even now so eloquent in
their rosy silence.

He was startled from his contemplation by the fulfilment of his
wish. The eyes were suddenly raised ; but he scarcely beheld their soft
beauty, ere the look of surprise they wore recalled him to a sense of his
embarrassing position as an unwarranted intruder.

The slight ejaculation of amazement that escaped her lips as she
beheld the stranger, caused Bellario to look up also, and in another in-
stant the fellow-students stood confronting each other with mutual con-
fusion and embarrassment

Bellario's cheek glowed partlv from surprise, partly from the stings
of his old proud sensitiveness on the score of his poverty, now so com-
pletely and unexpectedly betrayed to the eyes of his friend, and he
stood without power to utter a word ; while Guide, in the perplexity of
contending emotions, muttered a few half-articulate expressions of
having returned to ask for some book he had forgotten, a few more of
apology for having unwittingly infringed their privacy, and then hastily
withdrew.

TBI HEIRESS OW BELMONT. IS

lie hurried to the spot where he had appointed Balthazar to meet
biin ; and flinging himself on horseback, he pursued his way to Belmont
in a perturbation of mind he had rarely before expenenced.

His ardent nature suffered much beneath the check its affections
had received. His generosity would not suffer him to reflect upon bis
friend for having withheld this secret from him ; but a sense of disap-
pointment and chilled hope keenly beset him, and a painful surmise of
his own un worthiness to inspiro Bellario with as strong an attachment
as his own, agitated his mind, and took the place of the blessed unmis-
trustful serenity of friendship which had till now formed his chief hap*
piness.

" He is so infinitely my superior," thought Guido, in the more than
candor of a generous heart, ever ready to exalt the beloved object even
at the expense of self-humiliation and blame, *^ that it is perhaps pre-
sumptuous to hope he could share his every thought with me, as I would
with him. Entire confidence subsists between congenial mind&— and I
know well how unequal ours are in native power and intellectual
wealth. But a loving appreciation of his high qualities might have
substituted my own deficiency in the like endowments ; and my zeal
should have supplied my lack of merit. Had he but frankly told mo
that he was married I That he could not have his new-made wife to
come with me to Belmont ! How readily would my sympathy for him
have admitted the plea 1 How ungrudgingly should I then have yielded
his society! How my interest in his happiness would have prompted
me to rejoice in this addition to his felicity — to congratulate him on
this new joy ! Had he but told me that he was married ! "

This last aspiration was still the burthen of his thought. It haunted
him with its perpetual recurrence, as he wandered along beneath the
trees of that avenue where he had spent so many happy hours with his
friend. Until at length the oft-recurring idea was followed by another
—a question — that smote upon his heart strangely. " Had he indeed
told me that he was married to that fair creature ! — How then ? Would
this intelligence have really given me content? Could I have yielded
mj friend joyfully to her — she to him t Did not rather the few momentf

]4 PORTIA;

in which I beheld her, serve but to fill me with unwonted eniDtioD, to tbc
nigh forgetful ncss of my friend, and my errand to him f Might not the
too frequent contemplation of her beauty, and a near acquaintance with
the gentle qualities that doubtless consort with such outward perfection,
end by inspiring me with feelings no less treacherous to friendship, than
destructive to my own peace ? Perhaps after all I should rejoice rather
than regret that Bellario did not impart to me the existence of this tie^
or own that wedded love had had power to win him from his old vows of
Jawyerly celibacy and devoted friendship. So that his happiness is se-
cured, why should I repine ? "

In such unselfish thoughts as these, did Guido di Bclmonte seek to
console himself for the interruption his course of friendship had sus-
tained ; and it is not to be doubted but that he derived better comfort
from such a train of reflection, than he could have done from an indul-
gence in resentment or unworthy suspicion. A noble heart finds no
relief in reproach ; no solace in distrust or injurious belief of those it
loves. And thus the impulses of a generous mind act in liberal rever-
sion; like the earth's moisture distilled by genial warmth, they rede-
Bcend in wholesome showers, invigorating and refreshing the soil whence
they originally emanate.

Not many hours had elapsed since the young Count's arrival at Bel-
mont; and he was still lingering in the avenue, wooing a sense of re-
turning calm, that was beginning to steal over him, in place of his late
agitation, when he was awakened from his reverie by a hasty footstepi
and in a few moments more he found himself clasped in the arms of hia
friend.

** Bellario!" he exclaimed in amazement

"Yes, Bellario;" returned the young law-student, "Bellario, your
unworthy friend, come to avow his error, and to solicit indulgence."

He then made confession ^. his weakness. He owned how he had
always shrunk from a betrayal of his poverty ; the foolish pride this had
engendered ; the habit of reserve it had induced, so unjust to warmth
of friendship such as theirs; and the apparent nnkindness it had be*
guiled him into, by the late refusal to accoonpariy his friend to Belmont
doring the vacation*

THE HXIBB88 OF BELMONT. 15

^ Any other bnt yourself, my dear Guido, might have taken offence
at ao pertinacious a refusal from so unexplained a cause. But knowing
your generosity of character, I was sure that you yourself would be the
first to yield the pleasure of our proposed holiday together, if you were
aware that I gave up the indulgence, in order not to leave Portia in
solitude. I overlook the circumstance, that the total ignorance of my
home interests in which my own habitual reserve had suffered you to
remain, did not admit of your sympathizing with the desire I have felt,
ever since my father's death, of spending as much time as possible with
her. It is lonely enough, poor thing, when I am at college ; but my
first vacation since his loss, I resolved should be devoted to her."

^ You shall return to her at once I A horse shall be saddled to take
you back to Padua immediately ! I will not keep you another hour, my
friend ; " said the impetuous Guido.

" I knew this would be your feeling," replied Bellario ; " and yet my
own folly might have occasioned me to lose the pleasure of hearing you
express it. However, it is to Portia herself that I owe the present hap-
piness of explanation. Her surprise this morning at your sudden
appearance on our poor threshold, drew from me immediately after your
as abrupt departure, a full account of yourself, of the friendship that
subsists between us, and the probable cause of your seeking me there.
Her interest in the relation, her sympathy for your disappointment, and
her admiration of your generosity in returning to seek the friend who by
his want of frankness had risked offending you, opened my eyes to the
disingenuousness of my own conduct, and to the injustice into which I
had been betrayed by the mere desire to keep a secret, which, after all,
involved no shame or disgrace. Besides, the sudden revelation of a se-
cret which we have long sedulously preserved, will sometimes at the
same moment reveal to ourselves the real worthlessness of its tenure,
and lead us to wonder how we could ever have attached importance to
its preservation. And thus it was with me ; I found myself amazed to
think that I should have doubted for a moment whether the knowledge
of our poverty could possibly diminish the warmth of your regard. I
felty too, that by the indulgence of my selfish pride in veiling from joa*

16 poBTiA ;

view the penary in which I lived, I at the same time withheld from yoj
the pleasure of learning the sources of better happiness which that home
has lately contained ; and that, while I concealed from you the scantily-
furnished dwelling, I also debarred you from knowing one who can make
a palace of a hovel, a bower of bliss of a poor student*s chamber — my
dear and gentle Portia! "

"Return to her, my friend ; return to your lovely " Poor Guide

could not articulate the word wife, but he echoed her name — ** your
Portia ! "

" But not till I can take back with me the assurance that I have not
forfeited my friend's esteem. As I told you, it was Portia who occa-
sioned my coming hither, for she would not let me rest until I had
sought you, and expiated my past reserve by a full confession. She is
tenacious of her brother's honor, I can tell you, and will not consent to
Bellario's suffering an abatement of regard, even though his own conduct
to his friend may have deser^'ed so severe a penalty."

" Your sister ! " were the only words Guido could utter, in his amaze-
ment at finding the true identity of the beautiful girl whom he had
taken for granted was his friend's bride.

" Portia — my sister. Let me return to her with the assurance that
you have forgiven whatever pain my unexplained refusal may have given
you ; that you still hold me worthy of your esteem ; that though you
are content to give her my company, yet that we are as fast friends as
ever."

" For ever ! " exclaimed Guido, ardently, as he threw himself into the
arms of Bellario. ** I will take you back to her myself! We return to
Padua together!"

Then, springing up the steps of the terrace, which lay in front of the
house, at the end of the avenue, he led his friend into the dining-saloon,
where refreshment had been awaiting untouched and unthought of dar«
ing the late tumult of the young Count's mind. Now, however, in his
sudden joy, he felt the desire for food, and as he pledged his friend in
wine, and urged him to eat, afler his late journey, and before his coming
one, he manifested by his own enjoyment of the good cheer before themu
how many hours had elapsed in fasting and inquietude.

THB HBIBE88 OF BELMONT, 17

Bellario felt the full force of this betrayal oi iiis friend's previous
suffering, and he inwardly reeoUed that no future reserve of his, should
ever be permitted to risk estrangement, or to mar so perfect an attach-
ment; while he gave himself up to the present delight of watching
Guido's joy, and tasting with him the happiness of reconciliation.

The young Count's spirits rose high ; he seemed incapable of re-
maining still, now and then starting up from table, giving orders to his
attendants, and pacing up and down the apartment, as if action were a
necessary relief to the ebullition of feeling within.

** Come, Bellario, one more cup to the health of the gentle being who
has restored us to each other," he at length exclaimed, ^ and then we
will set forth to Padua. I am impatient to be gone, impatient to be
equal with her in the magnanimity of yielding you ; impatient to relieve
her sisterly suspense. Come, we shall find the coach awaiting us at the
park gate, at the lower end of the avenue."

" Do we not ride as usual ? " inquired Bellario.

"I have told them to prepare the coach, instead of saddling our
horses," replied Guido; "for I have allowed myself to entertain a hope
that we shall not have to stay long in Padua — that we shall even return
to-night, and not alone."

" How mean you ? " asked Bellario, smiling at the animated eagerness
that shone in each feature of his friend's face ; that danced in his eyes,
and played in the flexure of his mouth.

** I mean, that I have formed the hope that your sister will ,be pre-
vailed upon to accompany us back to Belmont, caro mio ; and you must
promise me to join your persuasion with mine to effect this. I shall
think but poorly of il Signor Avocato's eloquence in pleading, if we do
not succeed."

"We will hear what the Counsel has to say on the other side;**
answered Bellario. '* Perhaps her prudence may suggest some obstacle
to so sudden a scheme."

^ But I do not admit her as Counsel against us," said Guido ; ^ she
shall be judge in this case."

^Then yon consent to abide by her decision f " asked Bellario,

18 pobtia;

" Gladly ;*• rejoined the young Count "I have no hesitation ic
placing my cause in the hands of one, who ^^

"You forget that you are now changing her character again from
a Judge to that of an Advocate ; " interrupted the young law-student,
laughing.

** Well then, — I willingly refer ray sentence to the judgment of one
who has already given so generous an instance of consideration in my
behalf, by sending me my friend," replied Guido.

" In betraying that there was originally a favorable leaning to one
side, you impugn the strict uprightness which ought to characterize a
Judge," rejoined Bellario, " and thus invalidate the impartiality of the
verdict you hope ultimately to obtain."

"So that the verdict be what I desire, I will commute for any
amount of partiality to which it may be owing," said the young Count
gayly ; adding with a tender depth in his voice, which the gayety but
half concealed, " the more I owe to the favor of my Judge, the morn
welcome will my hoped-for sentence be."

In such playful conversation did our two friends pass the time,
until they reached the lowly dwelling in the Strada del Popolo. From
its casement, the light of a lamp streamed forth, and showed Bellario
that his sister was beguiling the time of his absence in copying for him.
On alighting from the coach and entering the apartment, they accord-
ingly found Portia seated at a table, busily engaged in writing; and
as the rays of the lamp shed their reflection upon her glossy hair*
and gently-inclined head, Guido thought she looked like the picture
of some inspired sibyl irradiated by an intellectual glory, or halo of
light.

The moment she perceived her brother, she arose, and flung herself
into his arms to welcome him home. ** Dear Bellario I " she exclaimed ;
then, perceiving his companion, she added in some surprise : — " Count
Guido, too ! " After a moment's modest pause, she thanked him in her
own simple frank manner for thus proving how heartily he forgave the
selfish brother and sister who wished to be together, regardless of
the claims of friendship. "By permitting you to return to me

THB HEISESS OV BSLMONT. 1)1

poon, my Bellario, and by accompanying yon home himself^
your kind friend has indeed shown how nobly he can pardon an
interference with his proposed pleasure/* concluded she, turning to
her brother.

" But I may still enjoy my proposed pleasure ; " eagerly rejoined
the young Count. " My holiday may yet be spent with far greater de-
light than even I had pictured to myself, when first I asked Bellario to
share it with me."

He then, with his characteristic ardor, poured forth his petition thai
Portia would crown her former kindness in behalf of the friendship that
Bubfiisted between her brother and himself, by consenting to accompany
them back to Belmont; that thus they need neither of them relinquish
the society of Bellario, but, on the contrary, might enhance their re-
spective pleasure by enjoying it in common. And when Portia, half
yielding to his seductive arguments, offered a faint resistance by
saying she ought to finish copying the paper she had in hand, he
instantly overruled that plea with the reminder that her brother could
now copy it for himself; that they could tumble whatever books and
papers Bellario required into the coach, and take them to Belmont to be
used at leisure.

Smiling at his impetuosity, and finding it more and more diffi-
cult to withstand his warmth of urgency, she looked appealingly at
her brother, and said : — " If you do not think it too late, dear Bel-
lario—"

Goido immediately burst in with a torrent of assurances that the
evening was not far advanced — that the moonlight was as brilliant as
noonday — that it was infinitely more agreeable travelling by night than
in the heat of the sun — that it was but a two hours' drive to Belmontr^
that it was the pleasantest road in all Italy — that he had set his heart
upon this little journey — that he was sure his friends would enjoy it
as much as he should, and that he trusted they would not refuse so
great a pleasure as it would be to them all.

The hearts of the brother and sister received almost as much delight
in complying, as he felt in their compliance; and the three friends set

20 F0RT4.A ;

forth in all the happiness of youth and elastic spirits. These will deriv#
pleasure from even every -day incidents, and commonplace occurrences;
and truly, a moonlight drive, through a beautiful country, to a charming
house, in the company of those we love best, at any period of life might
be capable of inspiring enthusiastic enjoyment. What wonder, then,
that Guido, Bellario, and Portia, thought they had never passed two
hours So enchantingly, as those in the coach that took them to Belmont.

On arriving, they were received by an old lady, who acted somewhat
in the capacity of housekeeper, but who had been no less a personage
than companion, or duenna, to the late Countess di Belmonte, Ouido's
mother. This Madame Ursula was a njost stately dame, who wore the
stiffest of silks, held herself in the stiff est of attitudes, and entertained
the stiffest of dragonian opinions. She was the ruling rigidity of the
house — the tight hand over Casa Belmonte. From the late Countess*
whose unaffected gentleness and easy suavity she chid as want of due
regard to the dignity of her station, down to the female servants, whose
sins of carelessness, idleness, boldness, or unthrift, she visited with the
severest reprehension, all submitted to her sway, all trembled at her
frown.

Strictly correct, even to austerity, in her own conduct, Madame Ur-
sula could make no allowance for difference of temperament, admit of no
excuse for a dereliction from duty. In her estimation, a fault was a
sin ; an error, a crime. She was sensitively alive to indecorum ; and
seemed almost to court impropriety, so anticipatively did she discern
the very shadow of its approach. With her, the sight of smiles con-
veyed something of moral offence; gayety of speech was akin to de-
pravity ; and light-hearted merriment little short of abomination and
wickedness. High spirits were, in her eyes, a heinous excess ; laughter,
an odious levity ; and the mere fact of youth, a sort of vice in itself.

Madame Ursula was well-born, though the decayed fortunes of her
family, and the sudden death of her parents, compelled her early to be-
come a dependant. This circumstance she could never forget; and
while it operated with the Count and Countess di Belmonte to make
them treat her with the extreme of kindness, it urged her to take nd

THE HEIRESS OV BELMOIIT.

if

rantagc of their toleration by indul^'ing her pride of virtue and self-
importance, until she became the imperious personage here described.

There was one individual, however, in this household, over whom
the frowns of Madame Ursula failed in exercising their usual supremacy.
The young Count Guido treated her with consideration, for the sake of
her age, her misfortunes, her former attachment to his mother, and the
services she had rendered, and still continued to render, in the family ;
for she was as conscientious in the discharge of her own duties, as she
was exacting with regard to those of others : but he plainly showed that
he thought the deference with which her opinions had been regarded
was excessive, and that he was not inclined to observe the same obedi-
ence himself. He did not evince this by opposition, or the slightest
discourtesy of any kind ; he only let it be tacitly understood that his
smiles were not to be controlled, his gayety not to be checked by any
forbidding looks on her part, and she soon learned to curb all expression
of reprobation, with the exception of a slight compression of the lips,
and a little shrill hem, caught back, stifled, and swallowed up, as it
were, ere it could reach his ears.

On the evening in question, when the young Count returned to Bel-
mont, bringing with him Bellario and his sister, Madame Ursula re-
ceived the young people with a lofty coldness intended to mark the
disapprobation she felt at such a wild expedition as the moonlight drive,
which wore rather the aspect of a juvenile frelic, than of a staid visit;
but the pleasure and the novelty of the adventure occupied them wholly,
and prevented their noting the old lady^s frigid looks.

Neither did they perceive the supercilious glance she bestowed upon
the plain attire of the young Count's guests, for it was almost immedi
ately followed by a look of complacency at her own brocade, and a
comforting reflection that she herself would never have dreamed of in-
viting persons to Belmont, whose dress bespoke their humble fortune,
and whose gentle birth was no otherwise indicated than by their grace
of person and elegance of demeanor.

** The Signorina Portia will doubtless Tike to retire early, after hef
journey ; ** said Ouido, when they had partaken of a supper to which

22 PORTIA ;

gayety and pleasant conversation had given the air of a feast. " Yoa, of
course, took care to order the preparation of the chamber which I ap-
pointed for the lady's reception, Madame Ursula?"

" The blue chamber has been prepared, according to my lord's wishes,"
replied the stately dame. Then turning to one of the attendants, she
added — " Rico, bid Lisetta come hither, that she may show the Signo-
rina to her apartment."

The young Count, who had evidently expected that Madame Ursula
herself would huve paid his guest the respect of attending her to her
room, rose hastily from his seat, saying : — " The Signorina's kind heart
will excuse Madame from accompanying her; years claim the privilege
of rest. I will myself show you and your sister whereabout the rooms
lie, Bellario."

Thus saying, Guido led his friends out, preceded by an attendant
bearing a branch of wax-lights; leaving Madame Ursula with the vexa-
tious consciousness that she had been the means of heightening the honor
of Portia's escort, while her sense of propriety was outraged by the
young Count wilfully playing groom of the chambers to guests of such
evidently humble rank — one of them a female, too !

Her discomfiture vented itself in a shriller hem than usual, that
quavered down into a groan, as she heard the gay voices of the trio
echoing along the gallery that led from the saloon where she sat

" That ungovernable young man will be more wild than ever, now he
has those two foolish young persons to abet him in his ridiculous sallies
of mirth," muttered the dame, as she sat starchedly in her chair, still at
the supper-table. " Very sad, very sad," added she, helping herself to a
bumper of Lachryma Christi ; '* and the worst of these thoughtless gig-
glers, who chatter and laugh the whole of meal-time, is, that they totally
neglect the duties of the table, and forget to see that one has one's glass
filled as often as needful. The Count never perceived that I wished for
more Montcpulciano to-night at supper ; I may as well take some now
it is my favorite wine. Ah, very sad, very sad ! " repeated she, touching
the back of her chair with her perpendicular spine, which was the nearest
approach to lounging in which she ever permitted herself to indulge.

THX HSIBS8S OV BELMOKT. 28

^ Sad indeed ) ^ sbe ejaculated once more, with a virtuous 8igh, as she set
down the second empty glass, and looked again reprehensively towards
the door through which the young Count and his friends had disappeared

This kind of tacit superintendence and mute reproof maintained by
Madame Ursula, during the visit of the young Count's guests, possessec^
a double advantage ; it solaced her own conscientious notions of duen
naship, and nowise interfered with the enjoyment of the young people.

Never had holiday been so full of delight for Guido as the present
one ; never had the period of vacation been so thoroughly enjoyed, or
appeared to fleet away so rapidly. To the known and valued charms
of Bellario's society, were now added the excitement and joy of each day
discovering those contained in the character and person of his friend^s
Bister. To mark her artless unspoiled simplicity, her native good sense,
her warmth of heart, her modest deference to her brother's opinions, her
high appreciation of his merits, her maidenly gentleness, yet unaffected
ease, all united to a face and person of extreme beauty, now formed a
daily source of study to the young nobleman, as new as it was interest-
ing. Each unfolded page of Portia's mind revealed fresh wonders ; he
gazed on the attractive volume, and perused every lineament of this fair
book, until its varied excellences seemed to comprise all the intelligence,
all the fascination of his entire previous reading. What science could
vie with a knowledge of those gentle thoughts ? What learning outweigh
the speaking earnestness of those persuasive eyes ? What scholastic
arguments exceed in eloquence the music of that soft voice ? What
erudition could exert so refining an influence as one of those appealing
smiles ? Or what store of acquirement be worthy of so zealous a toil
and confer so glorious an empire, as the gain of that tender heart?
There was a witchcraft in the present subject of the young student's con-
templations, which seemed to absorb him wholly, and to cast into com
parative disregard all other study, past or to come. He was like a man
suddenly impressed with the belief that he has discovered a clue to the
•ecret of transmuting metals ; the absorbing pursuit withdraws him from
all others, and henceforth alchemy is his engrossing thought^ his sole
•tady.

«i4 PORTIA ;

With characteristic ardor did Guide di Belmonte give himself ap to
the magic that enthralled him ; and the only discretion his enthusiasm
knew, was in the refraining from any overt expression of his feelings,
]e»t their too early or too eager avowal should dissolve the spell. He
would not risk seeing the present ingenuous ease of her manner ex*
changed for conscious timidity. Portia now treated him as the intimate
and cherished friend of her brother, and in that character, almost with
the freedom and unrestraint of a second brother; so Guido was well
contented for the present to enjoy all the charm of frank communion
which such a mode of treatment established between them. As a third
in this pleasant friendship, therefore, the young girl joined in all their
rambles through the park, visited their favorite haunts, beheld their
most admired views, lingered in their choicest nooks and recesses, and
uotonly accompanied them in their excursions, but showed by her active
sympathy and earnest intelligence, that she enjoyed their conversation,
shared in their aspirations, and partook of their enthusiasm. While
the presence of Portia thus doubled and trebles! all the previous delight
that the two students had derived from these scenes, she herself tasted
a pleasure she had never before known, and for the first time in her life,
this hitherto solitary young creature might be said to learn the true
happiness of existence. She had till lately lived in complete seclusion
beneath her sole surviving parent's roof at Verona ; and it was only since
the recent period of their father's death, that Bellario had brought her
to Padoa to share his humble dwelling.

Day after day the three friends wandered amid the woods and lawni
of Belmont ; and unwitting time crept on.

One afternoon they had set forth to visit some ruins on a beautiful
spot at the extreme verge of the estate, and the distance being farther
than Ouido had estimated, in his eagerness to take his friends thither,
it came, that, on returning homeward, the shades of evening overtook
them, ere they reached even the avenue that led to the house. The sud-
den darkness that succeeds to day, beneath an Italian sky, where there
is short interval of deepening twilight, prevented the two young men
from noting the palor that stole over the cheek of their companion, and

THE HEIHESS of BELMONT 25

betrayed tbe fatigue that so long a walk had occasioned to a frame less
calculated for exertion than theirs. Her bravery of heart, and ambi*
tion to proTO herself a not unfitting companion, as well as a dread of
the implied reproach to them if they discovered her fatigue, made her
anxiously endeavor to conceal her lassitude by an effort to maintain her
share in the animated conversation, which was as usual going on be*
tween them ; but at length she involuntarily yielded to an overwhelm*
ing sense of weariness, and permitted herself to Upse into silence. Sud-
denly this was observed by Ouido, who interrupted himself with an
abrupt exclamation of self-reproach at the want of thought which had
thus subjected his fair guest to so undue an exertion.

" We have been very thoughtless, I fear, Bellario ;" said he ; " or
rather I have been culpably selfish to urge an expedition so far too long
for her ! No time allowed for repose, either ! We were seated scarcely
half an hour among the ruins I So long since our early meal, too ! I
neglected to bid Madame Ursula provide us with refreshment, though I
ought to have known we should be detained beyond our usual hour of
return ! Unpardonable folly ! You are ill, carina ! You are pale, you
tremble !"

The moon had now risen, and revealed to' the young Count the gen-
tle white face that leaned for a few moments against Bellario's shoulder ;
but her brother's affectionate support, and cheering words of encour-
agement, with, still more, the torrent of reproaches which Ouido con-
tinued to pour forth upon his own heedlessness, enabled her to rally,
and she assured them she was quite recovered, and equal to proceed.

<' There is only the avenue to pass, and the terrace, and then you
will have thorough rest, cara mia," said her brother ; " you shall have
the couch wheeled over to the supper-table, Guido and I will let you
queen it as much as you please, the whole evening. Come, lean well
upon my arm, and we shall soon reach Belmont !"

'* Lean upon mine too ; we will support you between us," said Guido :
and thus linked in kindliness, the three friends passed together beneath
the shadow of the stately trees that formed the avenue to Belmont.

They had often walked arm-in-arm thus before, Portia between her

26 poutia;

brother and his friend, daring their wanderings through the grounds ;
and yet how was it, that now, the familiarity and closeness of th€
proximity which it occasioned between them, struck her with a signi*
ficance which it had never assumed before 1 Was it that the low soft
tones of Guidons voice, which only at intervals interrupted the cheerful
strain of the remarks with which Bellario sought to divert her, ad-
dressed h«r with more tender solicitude than usual 1 Was it that the
arm of Guide, upon which her's rested, occasionally pressed the hand it
sustained, against a heart that throbbed in unison with the tenderness
of the speaker's tone, and gave eloquent meaning to his few murmured
words ? Was it that though the deep shadow of the over-arching trees
permitted her not to see his eyes, yet she felt those eyes to be bent upon
her, as if they would fain pierce the gloom, and ascertain that the health*
ful color of her cheek was restored ?

Certain it is, that her recent pallor was now replaced by a rich car*
nation hue ; as certain that her heart had learnt responsive throbs from
the one which vibrated against her hand ; and still, as certain that the
languor of her frame was forgotten in the delicious thrill which crept
over her senses. It seemed that she could have walked on ever, through
that dim avenue, as if in & voluptuous dream, gliding onward without
action or volition.

And thus they reached the end of the avenue ; and there, on the
marble terrace, in the broad clear moonlight, stood the stiff figure of
Madame Ursula, willing to show the young people, by her coming thus
far to meet them, that they had considerably outstaid their usual period
of return.

The length of time which had elapsed since the due hour of supper,
and the protracted sufferings of her importunate appetite, had in all pro-
bability tended to sharpen her habitual acerbity, and to exasperate the
dame^s rigid observance of etiquette ; for she no sooner beheld Portia ap-
proach thus supported, than she cast a piercing glance of reproof upon
the fair arm that hung with such unseemly confidence upon the young
Count's, and hemmed so piercingly, that the terrace rang, as if a night-
owl had suddenly shrieked.

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 27

Tbe glance and the hem awakened the young girl from the trance in
which her senses had been steeped, and she involuntarily quitted her
hold of Guidons arm, and clung solely to that of her brother ; while the
young Oount, biting his lip, hastily seized the pointed elbow of Madame
Ursula, and placing Portia's hand upon the stately dame's arm, exclaim
ed :^-" Ay, good Ursula ; you assist the Signorina into the house, while
I hasten to the saloon, and arrange the couch for her. We have over-
tired her with too long a walk." So saying, he sprang through one of
the windows that opened on the terrace, and bade them follow at a pace
suited to Portia's fatigue.

In their subsequent rambles, Ouido found that by some strange
chance, their old mode of progression was never resumed. They walked
arm-in-arm, it is true, as they strolled through the grounds, or along the
avenue ; but it so happened that the young Count could never contrive
to have Portia between her brother and himself She invariably pos-
sessed herself of that arm of Bellario which was on the side farthest
from Guide ; and though he at first endeavored to frustrate this arrange-
ment, yet when he found himself 'more than once foiled in his attempt
to return to their old position, and regain her arm within his, he wanted
courage to insist upon a point from which she seemed averse.

His want of courage arose from a doubt. He could not resolve the
question he frequently asked himself; whether Portia herself shrank
from a renewed avowal of that tenderness which his manner had be
trayed on the evening when she had last permitted her arm to rest upon
his, or whether it was merely a confused consciousness of Madame Ur-
sula's rebuking glance, and the implied censure it conveyed, that caused
the timid girl to withdraw from this sweet familiar contact.

«

When he was inclined to attribute the change to this latter cause, ho
could scarcely forbear visiting upon the stiff dame the chagrin and morti-
fication he felt, and putting an end to it at once by a candid avowal of
his love ; but when he fancied that it ar^e from Portia's own coldness
to his suit, and from an anxiety on her part to extinguish hope on his,
without a more explicit declaration of their mutual feelings, which might
only serve to disturb the serenity of the friendship which now united

28 PORTIA ;

the three^ he felt his courage fail, and he submitced to see her maintaiB
her station on the other side of her brother.

One morning they were threading the intricacies of a neighboring
wood, where, deep in its recesses, a briery dell led to the foot of a water*
fall The inequality of the path they were pursuing, made the offer of
his aid but a mere common courtesy, yet she evaded his proffered arm,
though tacitly, and as if not perceiving his intention, in the eagerness
of conversation. Even when Bellario interrupted himself to say: —
'* You had better take Guide's arm as well as mine, Portia ; you will
stumble, if you do not, this path is so rugged and steep," she still paid
no attention to the proposal, but chatted on as before.

So marked a rejection, could scarcely p^s unnoticed ; and Guide in
a half-hurt tone said : — " Your sister is resolved to owe assistance to none
but a brother's care."

He had no sooner given way to this momentary pique, than he re-
pented ; but he could not judge of the effect his effusion might have
upon Portia, as her downcast eyes and averted countenance were par-
tially hidden from him by Bellario, who was again between them. As
for the latter, he did not perceive the vexation which embittered his
friend's tone, and he merely simply replied : — ^^ She well knows how en-
tirely she may trust that care, and with what fondness it will be devoted
to her through life."

The sister for an instant raised her loving eyes to meet those of the
brother, which were bent proudly upon the beautiful young creature be-
side him ; and Guide, as he looked upon them, felt as if the love that
aspired to assert its superior claim to that which existed between the
two orphans, must needs be a presumption foredoomed to disappoint-
ment.

The profound feeling of regret and desolation of spirit into which
such a reflection plunged the young Count, revealed to himself how far
he had permitted his heart to indulge the hope of one day inducing
Portia to own a preference even paramount to her affection for Bellario ;
and he returned but mechanical answers to the animated dissertation
npon some favorite topic, in which his friend was indulging. While the

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 29

youDg law student eagerly pursocd his theme, he perceived not the
silence of his companions, and they emerged from the wood on their
return, and had reached the avenue, without an idea having crossed his
mind, that he had for some time heen the sole speaker.

At length Quido was roused from his reverie, by a pause in his
friend's speech, and by some remark that fell from him a moment after,
touching the superlative beauty of Belmont, and his regret that this de-
licious holiday was drawing to a close. '' But three days more,'' added
he, ^' and we must return to Padua ; to relinquish the delights of Bel-
mont, for study, college discipline, and recluse assiduity. Farewell,
beautiful Belmont !"

At this instant, Guide's ear caught the sound of a deep sigh from
Portia's lips, as she murmured in echo of her brother's words : — " Fare-
well, beautiful Belmont, where we have all been so happy I"

The sigh, the mournful cadence of the voice, gave the young Count
the encouragement that lovers invariably gather from a betrayal of emo-
tion in the object beloved. Strength strangely generated jof weakness !
A look, too, a timid, hasty, involuntary look, met his eyes for one second,
as they wandered for the hundredth time that morning towards the gen-
tle face that had still bent droopingly on the other side of Bellario,
despite of all his vigilant endeavors to win a single responsive glance.

Now, however, in the look that met his, although it flashed upon
him but instantaneously, he read a mute confession as ample as it was
brief, as impassioned as it was modest, as unreserved as it was involuntary,
and the blissful conviction that it carried in a tumultuous rush to his heart,
sprang into words with all the impetuosity of his nature : — " We must
not part! We will never leave Belmont! Give her to me, Bellario ^
Give me your sister for my wife !"

The young law-student paused in utter amazement. It seemed as il
eucii an idea as the possibility of love growing out of friendship, hadi
never suggested itself to his mind. He stood still, regarding them both
with an air of perplexity that might have amused Guido upon any other
occasion. At present, however, he did not even see it ; his whole sou)
was in his eyes, and they were riveted upon Portia only, who remained
rooted to the spot, and covered with innocent blushes.

30 PORTIA j

At length Bellario said, smiling, as he beheld the truth in that orim-
Bon cheek : — " What does my sister herself say ?"

His sister said nothing ; but after a moment's pause, she drew her
hand softly from the brotherly arm to which she had hitherto clang, and
creeping round to his other side, she again placed one arm within his,
and held forth the other ^ith a faltering motion, as if it sought to re*
sumo its former resting-place upon that of Guido. The young Count
needed no words to bid him construe aright her gentle action, so eloquent
in its confiding sweetness, but as he caught the bounteous hand with
transport to his lips, he repeated; — ^^' What docs fairest Portia say?
Will she give herself to me ?"

" Her brother shall answer for her ;" said Bellario. " My own affec-
tion for the friend of my heart teaches me how surely his noble quali-
*ies have won my Portia's love ; and I ought perhaps to rejoice that an
earlier suspicion of the truth did not awaken scruples which false deli-
«^cy might have suggested. Had I sooner surmised this, I might have
thought it due to our own honor to avoid the seeming attempt to secure
an alliance so far above our station ; but Portia's heart is now yours,
and knowing (though but lately, in its full extent) the value of the
treasure you have gained, no unworthy pride of mine shall withhold it
from your possession. To show you how my friend's generosity, and
my sister's simple integrity of mind, have wrought their due effect in
eradicating my former prejudices, I will not say one word of the por-
tionless condition of the bride you have chosen. I resign my Portia
to your care, with the conviction that you will cherish her with no less
regard than had she brought you millions for her dower ; and for her, I
place her in your arms, with as proud a joy, as if she were descended
from a throne."

As Bellario concluded, he gently withdrew the trembling palm that
clung to him, and placing it in that of his friend, who still retained the
one she had first bestowed fast locked in his other hand, he left them
together, that they might tell each other their full hearts.

The fond brother wandered apart for awhile, that, in devout thanks-
giving, he might imburthen his own of the tide of gratitude that
swelled it, for the blissful lot which was thus secured to his orphan

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 31

sister, and for the increased happiness this union promised, not only to
his beloved friend, but to- them all. After some time spent thus in
grateful reflection, he was ascending the terrace by another approach
than the flight of steps leading from the avenue, in order that he might
still leave the lovers undisturbed, when he met Madame Ursula, just as
she was emerging from one of the windows that opened down to the
ground on to the terrace.

" Alone, Signer Bellario ! Where is your sister ? Where is Count
Ouido?" exclaimed the dame, aghast at this instance of what she
thought the young law-student's plebeian ignorance of propriety.
" Misericordia, I think I see them yonder in the avenue together ! Is
it possible you can permit Santa Diana ! If my eyes do not de-
ceive me, his arm is round her waist ! Santissima Madonna ! He
stoops his face towards her's — I do believe "

She paused and gasped.

" I should not wonder," said Bellario with malicious calmness, " if
Ouido is actually giving my sister a kiss."

"Hold, Signer!" shrieked the Duenna, "don't utter the filthy
word !" So saying, she hurried down the marble steps with all the
speed the stiffness of her dignity would allow, and bustled along the
avenue like an enraged goose, fluttering, and sputtering, and screaming.

When she reached the lovers, who, seeing and hearing this discord-
ant approach, came towards her, to discover its meaning, she could
scarcely articulate a word, but panted out : — " I am surprised, Signor-

ina, that " " Stay, Madame Ursula ;" interrupted Guide, smiling.

" Give me leave to surprise you still more, by informing you that hence-
forth you are to address this lady as Countess di Belmonte."

The return to Padua was of course deferred ; Bellario remaining at
Belmont to behold the happiness of his friend and sister confirmed in
marriage. But after the wedding, the young law-student pleaded his
anxiety to resume those labors that were to insure him future inde-
pendence and renown.

When the young Count would fain have urged him to stay with
them ever, saying how little need there was now to endure the pain of

82 PORTIA ;

■eparaiion, since his possessions sufficed for a purse in common betweec
them, Bellario ingenuously acknowledged that even could the generosity
of his friend reconcile him to such a proposal, his own ambition to
create for himself a name among the eminent lawyers of his country,
would not permit him to exchange so proud a hope for a life of inaction
and inutility.

Guido yielded to this argument with involuntary approval and
esteem, that counterbalanced the regret he felt in parting with his old
fellow-student ; and the two friends separated with the understanding
that all Bellario's vacation-time was in future to be devoted to Belmont.
" Years thus happily rolled on. The young student spent his time in
alternate labor at learned Padua, and relaxation at lovely Belmont ;
until he rose to the attainment of the position in society, which had so
long been the object of his ambition. While still young, he was old in
fame and reputed ability ; and few lawyers of the time ranked in pub-
lic estimation with the learned Doctor Bellario.

Count Ouido and his fair wife dwelt in uninterrupted happiness on
their estate, carrying out the youthful visions of the former, by a life of
peaceful virtue and benevolent utility. The only drawback to their
felicity, was their remaining unblessed by ofifspring ; but after they had
been married twelve years, and had relinquished all hope of beholding a
child of their own, Portia confided to her husband the prospect she had
of presenting him with an heir.

When Bellario next visited Belmont, he was apprised by the happy
parents of their new cause of joy, and he, with them, awaited the advent
of the expected stranger with scarcely less delight than their own. He
did not fail to rally his sister on the confirmed manner with which she
Always spoke of the expected little one as a boy ; and bade her remem-
ber, that as Guido and himself would both prefer to possess a miniature
copy of herself, there were two to one in favor of the accomplishment
of their wish instead of hers. In the midst of their gay anticipations,
came an express from Padua to summon Bellario thither, as his pre-
sence was required during ^he decision of an important case that wan
about to be tried.

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 33

As he mounted his horse to depart, he waved his hand to Guido and
Portia, who stood on the terrace to bid him farewell. '^ God bless you,
mj sister !" he cried. '' No son, mind 1 Give Belmont an heiress, as
you value my brotherly love !"

He rode off hastily, lest he might not be able to preserve the cheer-
ful tone he had assumed in addressing her ; for he felt reluctant to quit
this beloved sister ere her hour of peril had passed. Still, no forebod-
ing whispered that the farewell had been for ever ; no thought that he
had looked upon her face for the last time ; and he was totally unpre*
pared for the blow that smote him some days after, in receiving this
terrible letter : —

'^ Our angel is now an angel indeed. Come and behold what lives to
prove her earthly sojourn. An infant Portia is all that is left of our
lost one, whose image alone rests in the heart of her miserable husband

" The most unhappy

« Guido."

The almost equally-afflicted Bellario lost no time in hastening to his
friend ; but when ho arrived at Belmont, he found even the sad hope of
bringing comfort by his presence was denied. As Madame Ursula
placed the infant Portia in his arms, she informed him that since the
hour when the remains of the Countess had been consigned to the
grave, her unhappy husband had been seen by no one. He seemed
suddenly ^o have vanished from the face of the earth with her whom ho
mourned. How or when he had disappeared was a mystery, and Bel-
lario could hardly doubt that he had for ever lost a brother as well as a
sister. The last person who had beheld him, was his faithful attendant,
Balthazar, who told Bellario, that on the evening of his lady's funeral,
he was crossed in the avenue by a dark figure, which had at first startled
him with its muffled spectral appearance ; but that on taking courage to
look at it again, he was almost convinced it was his poor master. This
belief made him turn, and follow it ; but it fled faster than he could
pursue, and soon vanished entirely among the trees in the distance.

There was one slight circumstance, which alone permitted Bellario

34 PORTIA ;

to hope that his friend had not madly destroyed himself. In Ouido'i
study, he found a fragment of a paper, apparently addressed to himself,
though it ¥Eas incoherent, abrupt, and written in evident distraction.

• • * " She will be your care, I know. All I have is hers—
your justice and tenderness will be her best safeguard — should I ever
return, she may " * * * *

It was on these few last words, that Bellario founded his hope.
They were all that remained to dispel his apprehensions that his infant
charge might be wholly orphaned ; and he took a solemn vow as he bent
over the sleeping babe, that he would devote himself to her welfare, in
the fervent trust that he might one day be permitted to replace her in
the arms of a living father. Meanwhile, having learned of Madame
Ursula in as explicit terms as her prudish lips could muster, that a
healthful wet-nurse had been provided in the person of one of the Bel-
mont tenantry ; and having ascertained that the affairs of the estate
were placed in an advantageous condition for the future benefit of the
infant heiress ; he returned to the duties of his profession at Padua,
until such time as she could profit by his presence and immediate super-
intendence.

Letters from Madame Ursula brought him continued intelligence of
the bab^^'s thriving, and he would frequently steal a day from his labors
to ride over to Belmont, that he might indulge himself with a sight of
the child. For in the small unformed features, and diminutive limbs,
the force of affection taught him to find traces of his lost sister and
friend ; in the mite of a nose, and the wondering eyes, he thought he
could read the animation and intelligent fire of Ouido's expression ; in
the little dimpled hands, he fancied h 3 discovered the slender fingers of
Portia ; and even in the fair golden curls of the little one, he dreamed
he beheld the raven tresses of her mother. So whimsical is the sweet
blindness of love ! Such tricks of imagination were the senses of the
bachelor lawyer accustomed to play, while, spell-bound by loving memo-
ries, he held the child in his arms, and pored over its baby lineaments.

Soon, it learned to know the face that hung so tenderly over its own ;
and almost itb first look of intelligence was given to him. It would

THE HEIKESS OF BELMONT. 35

erow and coo in answer to his caresses ; it would learn to hold up its
fairy finger while hearkening to the sound of his horse's feet, and clap
its hands when it saw him approach.

Once, as he was galloping up the avenue, he saw the nurse and her
charge playing on the grass ; and suddenly, to his great delight, he be-
held the little creature bundle itself up from its squatting position on
the turf, and come toddling towards him ; it had learned to run alone,
since his last visit !

Then — in a visit or two after that one — a new pleasure ; the child
could welcome him with a few prattling words ; and as she sat on his
knee, she could beguile his solitary breakfast with her pretty voice, and
lisp out her newly-mastered phrases.

In the course of some months more, a period of vacation occurred, and
the bachelor-uncle looked forward with absolute pleasure to the thought
of spending some time with a mere child ; the grave lawyer had learned
to love nothing in the world so well as his little Portia. She was now
not merely the child of his sister and friend, she had become a joy in
herself.

And the little creature repaid his love with a fondness singularly
intense in one so young. She seemed to have inherited her father's
ardor of disposition, with much of her mother's gentle sweetness. She
never tired of being with him ; and even showed none of the usual rest-
lessness of children, when his serious occupations demanded his atten-
tion. She would sit quietly on the ground, amusing herself with the
pictures or toys that he had given her ; and seemed to be aware that by
silence she preserved the privilege of remaining in the room with him.
When Madame Ursula would appear at the door of the library, where
he usually sat, and offer to take away the child lest she should disturb
11 Signer Dottore, little Portia would cast beseeching eyes up to her
uncle's face, and say : — " I'll be so good, if you'll let me stay." And she
always kept her word ; sitting sometimes for hours on the floor, and only
varying her position by creeping like a little mouse to a low drawer
which was considered hers, where her toys were stored, or by
kneeling before a chair upon which she might range her pictures side
by side.

16 PORTIA ;

Once Bellario observed her put her finger on her lip and glance
timidly towards him, as she checked herself in some little nursery-tune
which she was unconsciously beginning to murmur to herself. '^ I mustn't
sing/' he heard her whisper. " Yes you may, if you sing very softly,"
said her uncle ; and thenceforth he accustomed himself to hear the little
undersong going on while he was writing, till at length, had it ceased,
he would have well-nigh missed the pretty music of its humming.

But these hours of needful stillness, were delightfully compensated
by the games of romps, the races on the greensward of the avenue, the
rides on the shoulder, and the scampers on horseback, that the fond
ancle indulged her with, when he had concluded his day's avocations.
Indeed, it is a question whether the indulgence was not as great on one
«ide as the other ; whether, in fact, the learned man did not as fully
enjoy these innocent gambols as much as the frolicsome child did. To
judge by the facility with which he accommodated himself to her infantine
ways, the unreserve with which he abandoned himself to her disposal,
and the happy ease of his manner while devoting himself to sport with
her, this companionship was now his chief delight, as it evidently was
hers.

A look more bright than any that had beamed in his eyes since his
sister's death, would dwell there now as he tossed her baby-daughter
high in his arms towards the ceiling of the saloon, and watched the ecstasy
with which she found herself so near its glittering gilded fret-work ; a
gentle smile would play round the grave lawyer's lips, as he suffered
himself to be harnessed and driven along the avenue as the little girl'^
mimic steed ; but some of their happiest times of all, were when he
placed her on horseback before him, and rode through the glades, and
shadowy woodlands, telling her many a pleasant tale of wonder and
delight. Sometimes the learned head, so well stored with weighty pre
cedents, that directed senates with its judgment, and swayed princes
with its counsel, would rack its memory for fairy legends or gay stories
for the sole delight of a little girl ; at others, the lips that poured forth
eloquence and erudition commanding the plaudits of his fellow-men, and
influencing the destinies of the human race, would frame simple precepts

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 37

of goodness and loveliness fitted for the comprehension of the fair-haired
ehild that sat upon his saddle-bow. But in this single, childish auditress,
a world of sympathy, intelligence, and sensibility had their being, which
found expression in the absorbed and enchanted gaze with which she
fixed her eyes intently on his face while he spoke.

A favorite theme with them both, was the excellence of the parents
she had lost. He was never tired of telling, or she of hearing, about
the beautiful gentle mother who was now an angel in heaven; who
dwelt in the clear blue sky, and watched her little girl when the stars
were shining, and the moon was peeping in at her chamber-window,
while she was fast asleep ; who loved to see her little Portia good and
happy ; and hoped to have her one day in the blue and glorious heaven
with her. And then he told her of the kind handsome father ; of the
loving friend he had been ; of how dear they had been to each other ;
of how he had grieved to lose the beautiful mother, who had gone to be
an angel ; and how, in impatience that he could not yet go with her to
be one also, he had wandered away no one knew whither, but might per-
haps one day return to see his little Portia if she continued good and
gentle.

And then the child would put up her rosy mouth for a kiss, and tell
her uncle she ^' meant to be so good — 0, so good — and always good."
And then hey would ride home cheerfully and happily ; and patting
the horse's neck, would think no time so pleasant as that spent on his
back, when he carried them far and wide through the broad domains of
Belmont.

One morning, after breakfast, there happened to be fewer law papers
than usual to examine, and Bellario told his little Portia that if she
would be quite quiet for an hour, he would then be ready to take her out
for a long, long ride ; and he asked Madame Ursula to be so good as to
let them have a little basket with something nice to eat while they were
out, in case they were away some hours.

The dame made a curtsey of acquiescence ; then turning to the child
she added : — ^^ Now, Contessina, come with me."

The little girl arose, and followed her half-way towards the door,
then stopped.

88 PORTIA ;

Madame Ursula looked back, and Beeing the fixed attitude in wbioh
the child stood, in the middle of the room, frowned heavily, saying :— -
" Did you hear me ? Come !"

Bellario quietly watched this scene, though his head was hent oyer
his papers ; and he observed an obstinate inflexibility take possession of
the little girl's face and figure, as she replied : — ^^ Not unless you prom-
ise that I shall come back in time for the ride."

^^ I shall promise nothing. Come this instant !" said Madame
Ursula; then, glancing at Bellario, and seeing, as she thought, that
he was absorbed in his occupation, she added in a stern low tone : —
" Bemember !"

Portia's face flashed scarlet, and she moved forwards a step or two ;
but presently she stopped again, and said : — " No, if you beat me, I
don't care ; I won't go till you promise."

Bellario was just going to exclaim : — ^' Beat I" but he checked him-
self, resolved to satisfy himself further, while they still thought them-
selves unobserved.

^' Promise a chit like you, indeed ! A fine pass things have come to,
truly 1" exclaimed Madame Ursula. '* I insist upon your coming to
your tasks, when I bid you."

" But I'm not a chit — Pm heiress of Belmont — Lisetta told me so ,
and she said I needn't learn my letters if I didn't like — ^and I don't
like. Besides, I want to ride with cugino mio ; and I won't say my
letters till you promise I shall have done in time to come back for my
ride. Nasty letters ! I hate them." And the child uttered the last
words with flashing eyes, and an insolent lip.

Madame Ursula stalked back, and seized the little rebel whom her
own injudicious unrelenting had created. As she clutched Portia's
wrist, the child uttered a piercing scream ; but the next instant she
seemed to remember her promise not to disturb Bellario, for she looked
towards him hastily, and then, checking herself, writhed and struggled
mutely in the housekeeper's grasp.

Bellario now thought it time to interfere. '^ Madame Ursula," said
be, ^ why do you wish the Contessina Portia to go with you 1 May she
not stay here, as usual ?"

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 39

« I need hardly tell 11 Signore Bottore," replied the dame, ^^ that it
would be disgraceful for a young lady of the Contessina's distinguished
station to be brought up in ignorance. I have therefore thought it my
duty to teach her her letters, that she may one day know how to read.
I presume so illustrious and learned a gentleman as yourself knows the
importance of early tuition ?"

'^ But did I not hear something about ' beating,' Madame ? Surely
that is not a part of your system ?" said Bellario.

" Oh, a birch-rod, merely hung up in my room by way of a thrtat,
signer. We all know that a threat is sometimes as effectual as a pun-
ishment," replied she ; ^' and the Gontessina's pride makes her dread
the shame of a whipping, as much as the rod itself"

'^ Do you know, I am not a great advocate for either shame, or the
rod, Madame, in teaching." Bellario saw the scarlet mount to the
child's brow again, at the mention of the birch-rod ; but he saw also a
look of triumph, as if she understood that Madame was being rebuked
instead of herself. He was vexed at being thus compelled to discuss
the matter in her presence at all, but as it was hardly to be avoided
after what had passed, he added: — "If you please, we will for the
present allow this little lady to go on in her ignorance. She will one
day find what a pleasure it is to read, and will wish to learn, and be
grateful to those who will take the trouble to teach her. Allow me to
thank you for that which you have already taken, Madame Ursula ; al-
though ^ request you will indulge me by letting the lessons cease, until
Portia is wise enough to wish for them herself."

Madame Ursula curtsied stiffly, and withdrew ; muttering to herself
that the illustrissime Dottore was a fine person, forsooth, to be a judge ;
when he did not know how to manage a little child better than by letting
her have her own way.

The ride that day was not so pleasant as usual. Portia, young aa
ehe was, could understand that what had made her uncle ride on so
thoughtfully and so silently, was the scene that had taken place that
morning. x\fter peering up in his face several times in the vain hope of
meeting the fond smile that generally answered her's, she felt the rebuke

40 PORTIA ;

contained in that sad abstracted look, and at length said : — ^ Are jon
angry with me, cugino mio ?"

" I am sorry, very sorry, that my little Portia was so naughty, this
morning ; I do not like to see her so unlike the little girl I love."

'' I'll say my letters, if you'll love me still ; I'll never be naughty
about reading again."

^' It was not your naughtiness about saying your letters, that made
me sorry, carina ; it was to see my little girl behave so rudely to Ma
dame — to seek her look so insolent and proud — and to hear her talk of
being he'.ress of Belmont, as a reason for not learning to read."

"• Lisetta said so — she said I should be a great lady by and by, and
need only do what I like ; and needn't take any trouble to learn."

'^ Lisetta should have told you that a great lady would never like to
be ignorant ; that you would be more to be pitied if you were a coun-
tess who did not ki.ow how to read, than if you were a. poor peasant ;
and that the heiress of Belmont ought to be gentle and kind, not wilful
and rude, if she ever expects to be respected and obeyed in her turn
Besides, though you will one day be lady of Belmont, you are now only
a poor little weak child, who ought to be very thankful and obedient to
those who are so good as to take care of you, and do many things for
you which you are not able to do for yourself"

The child laid her head meekly against his breast, and whispered:—
^ I'll try and be good, if cugino will love me." And when his arms
softly pressed round her, she felt that she was forgiven ; and they could
again enjoy the beauty of the ride, and laugh and chat, as gaily and
happily as ever.

Next morning after breakfast, the papers and law-books were again
speedily despatched, and Portia started up from her toys, expecting to
be summoned for a ride ; but she saw her uncle take down a book from
one of the shelves of the library (which was the room in which they
usually sat), and placing it upon a low desk by the side of his easy-chair
he lolled back, and began to read.

Now Portia, though so young a child, had already found out the dit-
ference between business-reading and pleasure-reading; for she knen

THE HEIRESS OP BELMONT. 4.

that when her uncle was leaning over those yellow papers, oracEling
parchments, and plain-looking books, while his eyes were intently fixed,
and his pen occasionally dipped in the ink, and he wrote a few words,
and his lips looked grave and unmoved, — he was on no account to be
disturbed, and that was the time for her to remain perfectly still ; but
when she saw him draw the reading-desk to the side of his easy chair,
and stretch his legs carelessly out, and lean back comfortably, and place
his elbow on the arm of his chair, and prop his chin with his closed
hand, and look at his book with happy eyes and smiling mouth, she
knew then that she might creep to his side, scramble on to one of his
knees, nestle her cheek against his bosom, and thus sit on his lap and
play with her doll without interrupting him. Nay, at such times of idle
reading, she might feel thatshe was welcome ; for the arm that supported
her on his knee, would now and then give her a hug, or the head that
bent over hers would press its lips upon her hair, when the leaf of the
book wanted turning over.

She looked at him now, as he sat there reading, and wondered that
he preferred sitting still, and gazing at those lines, and turning page
after page, and reading on and on, instead of going out for a ride,
or a race in the avenue, or a frolic on the lawn, or some other plea-
sant amusement. ^^ I suppose he finds reading very pleasant too ; I
suppose he likes reading as well as I like playing." Some such thoughts
as these doubtless passed through little Portia's mind ; she went close up
to Bellario, and leaned her two elbows on his knee, and gazed steadily
up into the face that was looking as steadily into the open book ; and
she presently said abruptly : — " I wish you would teach me my letters ;
I want to read with cugino mio.''

Her uncle,-— or cousin as she called him, — caught her up in his arms
with delight at finding that his hope was fulfilled ; the sight of the plea-
sure derived from reading, had inspired the voluntary desire to taste
that pleasure ; of her own accord she wished to learn.

From that time forth, the hours devoted to pleasure-reading were
partly spent in pointing out the big letters in each page to the little
girl upon his knee. First their forms were pointed out, and pretty

42 PORTIA ,

stories were invented, to fix their different shapes and names in the
child's memory ; then came the amusement of finding out the shortest
words in each line, that the little one might spell them, and find out the
sound the letters made, when put together in words. For this purpose,
any book that happened to lie upon the desk to charm the grave lawyer
in his hours of poetic recreation, would serve equally well to display the
alphabetic symbols, and mere first syllables, to the infant student. To
him, the magic page might often conjure up visions of the proud ^neas.
and forsaken Dido ; of meek- hearted Griselda, or wandering Constance ;
of the pale pair of lovers, swept upon the whirlwind of the hell-storm ;
of the docile giant Morgante ; of Orlando, Rinaldo, handsome Astolfo,
the daring Englishman, mounted on his hippogriff", and the lovely Ange-
lica, with her beauteous boy-lover, Medoro ; of the noble amazon, Clo-
rinda, with her dying face irradiated by immortal hope ; of all these
poetic images might Bellario in turn behold traces in the opened page,
while to his neophyte it merely bore elemental figures and hieroglyphic
shapes — ^but in which nevertheless lay a hidden world of future intelli-
gence and beauty. To endow his tender scholar with the power to seek
this enchanted region, to render her worthy of its attainment, and to gift
her with the right of participation in its happy possession, became Bcl-
lario's chief delight ; and in order that he might devote as much time as
possible to his little Portia, he thenceforth had all writings and papers
brought over to Belmont, and contrived to conduct every case, and to
transact all business there, that did not absolutely require his presence
in Padua, Venice, or elsewhere.

Thus they became closer companions than ever ; and while Bellario
beheld the happy looks, and gay smiles of the little creature, he could
scarcely regret that she had no fitter playmate than a grave bachelor-
uncle, — ^a learned doctor of law.

From the day when she had besought him to teach her, Portia had
learned to love her lessons as much as she had formerly dreaded them.
They were never after that time called "nasty letters" — but ^ere "pretty
letters," and " dear pretty books," and now no longer thought of as a
dreary task, but as a pleasant play — nearly the pleasantest play she had.

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 43

Now, she would follow the pointer with unwearied interest as it traced
the curves of the letters, and indicated their combination and succession
in the formation of syllables and words ; sometimes she would guide
her own baby finger along the line in pointing mimicry, sometimes sha
would pat with her spread hands upon the lower part of the page, as in
childish impatience, or in sportive concealment of what was to come, and
sometimes she would lean her folded chubby arms upon the ledge of the
desk that supported the book, and listen earnestly to the recited story,
or gaze at the wondrous picture.

There was one picture, an especial favorite. It was very large, and
folded up into a book, that it belonged to, in several folds. As these
folds were successively and carefully undone, and spread forth (for Por-
tia was taught to respect books, and to handle their leaves very gently
lest they should be injured), she loved to watch the gradual appearance
of the different portions of the curious scene, which, though she knew so
well, she was never tired of looking at. There was a wild mountainous
district towards one end of ihe long picture ; and here she beheld a sin-
gular building, that looked half like a house and half like a ship, near
which stood a venerable old man, and two or three younger ones, with
some women, who were watching the approach of a vast train of animals,
that walked two and two, and formed a strange procession, extending
and diminishing away into the distance, where might be seen a tumult
of troubled waters, and the dark clouds of a threatening storm.

It was these numberless animals that riveted the attention of the
little picture-gazer ; and she would coax from her indulgent teacher an
endless repetition of histories descriptive of the tawny lion, with his
majestic roar that echoes through the forests as he stalks along ; of the
velvet-striped tiger, with his cruel eyes ; of the stately elephant ; the
swift and noble horse; the faithful dog; the graceful stag; and the
nimble squirrel. He would tell her of the humble little mouse, whose
gratitude lent it patience and perseverance to nibble through the bonds
that held captive the king of beasts ; of the fox that used its cunning
wits to get out of the well, at the expense of the silly credulous goat ; and
of the wise young kid, who, in remembering her mother's advice to keep

44 PORTIA ;

tho door fast, saved herself from being eaten up by the treaoheroui
wolf. He would tell her how the eagle's strong eyes can boldly stare
into the sun, his powerful beak can cleave the skull-bone of his prey, and
his firm wing upbear him towards the sky ; how the bee-like humming*
bird can creep into the cup of a flower ; and how the winged creatures
of the air, from the crested vulture to the diminutive wren, know how to
construct their curious nests, and build them warm, snug, close, and
cleverly, of mere bits of twig, and straw, and moss.

While these things were telling, the rides and out-of-door pastimes
would be well-nigh forgotten ; but the prudent monitor would let neither
his pupil's eagerness nor his own, detain them too long from the pure
breath of heaven, or the due exchange of mental exertion for physical
exercise ; and so the books were laid aside, and out the two would sally,
through the window that opened on to the terrace, and down the steps
(Portia clinging to her cousin's hand, as she tottered from one marble stair
to the other, bringing each foot safely down at a time), till they reached
the shady avenue, the scene of most of their open-air sports.

But though the child and the bachelor-lawyer sufficed thus for each
other's happy companionship, there were times when Bellario thought it
might have been better, could his little Portia have had the society of
other children. As it was, she was too much the object of exclusive
attention to people all older than herself, and this tended to foster the
idea that she was a personage of vast importance, which, her position iu
life, as well as the remarks of injudicious dependents, were calculated
to engender. He thought that, had she some young associate, this im-
pression might be weakened by the equality that naturally establishes
itself between children, who know little of forms and observances, and
are apt to play together, asserting their individual opinions and wishes,
regardless of difference in rank or station. He thought, too, that with
one younger than herself, the sense of power, almost inseparable from
her condition, might assume the form of benevolence and kindness ; and
that in lieu of the imperious insolence which too often accompanies the
eommand of those older than the mistress herself, she might learn to
rule with bounteous consideration, and affectionate protective care. He

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 45

wished that the future lady of Belmont should be beloved, as well as
obeyed, by her dependents.

An opportunity offered shortly after, for carrying out his desired ex-
periment. Madame Ursula confided to him a grievous trouble respect-
ing a sister of hers, who had some time since degraded herself, and
committed the honor of her family, by marrying a small tradesman in
Venice. " The miserable girl too late found out her mistake," said the
dame ; " for I can in no other way account for her death, which hap-
pened soon after giving birth to a little girl. As for the poor wretch,
who dared to marry her, he doubtless awoke to a sense of his presump*
tion, although, also, too late ; for he is just dead, and has left his child
without a single bagattino* to bless herself with. She must go into ser-
vice, of course ; but she must wait till she is grown up, for that. Though
I took Bianca^s folly deeply to heart, and voyred never to forgive the
injury she had done our family, yet I hope I know my duty better
than to let her wretched offspring starve. I thought, therefore, I would
consult you, Signer Dottore, upon the propriety of letting the child
come here and stay at Belmont, until she is old enough to become
cameriera to the Contessina Portia. I will promise that the miserable
little creature shall be kept strictly within the precincts of the house-
keeper's apartments, and shall not be permitted to intrude upon the pre-
sence of either yourself or the Contessina."

" Let her come to Belmont by all means, Madame ;" answered Bel-
lario ; " and pray do not restrict the children from playing together as
much ds they please. Your little darling will make a charming com-
panion for mine, I doubt not."

" My ^ little darling,' Signer I She is none of mine ! Nerissa is none
of my child !" exclaimed Madame Ursula with a chaste shiver ; " but as
siy sister's child, I thank you for the permission that she may come
here."

The faithful Balthazar was dispatched to Venice to fetch the little
Nerissa to her future home ; and Bellario told Portia of the new play-
fellow who was coming to be with her at Belmont. She answered thai

♦ A small copper coin, formerly current in Venice

46 PORTIA ;

she wanted no one to play with her but her own cugino ; nevertheless,
he could perceive that as the time drew near for the expected arrival,
Portia's eyes were often directed towards the door of the saloon, where
they were dining; Madame, as usual, presiding at the head of the
table.

At length they heard a horse's feet coming up the avenue, and Portia
slid down from her chair, to peep out of the window at the new-comer.
Presently, they heard a child's voice, and then a peal of joyous laughter ;
the door opened, and Balthazar, who had used his best exertions to enter-
tain his young fellow-traveller during their journey, brought the child
in, in his arms, while she was still shouting with merriment at some
droll story he had been telling her.

This indecorous entry scandalized Madame, and she frowned appall-
ingly.

The little Nerissa, placed suddenly upon her feet in the midst of
strangers, stood transfixed, gazing at them ; and as she scanned these
new faces, the smiles faded from her lips, which she began to pull pout-
ingly with one finger, eyeing the group askance.

" Take your fingers out of your mouth, do, child ; and come here,'*
said Madame Ursula.

It seemed that the uninviting tone had more force than the words,
for the child said shortly : — " No."

" Come here when I bid you ; come to me ;" repeated Madame with a
still more forbidding look and tone than before.

^' No ;" again replied the little one. Then, turning to Balthazar, and
clutching his skirts, she adc^ed : — " I'll come to you ; take me on the
horse again."

Bellario had purposely said nothing, that he might see what Portia
would do of her own accord. She now took a cake and some sweet-
meats off" the dinner-table and went towards the little stranger, holding
jhem out to her, and said : — ^' Won't you have some?"

Nerissa looked at Portia for a moment, then took one of the offered
sweets, and next held out her rosy mouth, as she had been taught to da
that she might kiss her thanks ; but she still maintained her grasp of
Balthazar's skirt

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 47

Portia went back to the table for a nectarine, and returning again,
Bluffed that also into the child's hand, then holding out her own, she
said : — " Won't you come with me to cugino?"

The little hand dropped its hold of the attendant's coat, and was
given confidingly to this new friend, who led her in a sort of triumph to
Bellario.

The acquaintance thus begun, went on prosperously. Nerissa looked
up to Portia as her abettor and protectress in all her encounters with
her awful aunt ; while the encouragement and patronage which the little
lady of Belmont accorded to her new playmate, was accompanied by a
gentle feeling of care and tenderness for one younger and more helpless
than herself

It is true that there was but a year's difference between them ; but
at their age a few months make a prodigious disparity ; besides, the
little lady had not only constantly associated with her grave cousin, but
was of a naturally intelligent reflective mind, whereas the humble dam-
sel was one of the most thoughtless, gay, giggling, sportive, merry little
rogues in the whole world.

This temperament of Nerissa's caused Bellario to rejoice more than
ever at the fortunate chance which had brought the two childreu together;
for he felt that it acted as an antidote to the too grave society in which
his beloved Portia would otherwise have exclusively passed her youth.
Now, he had the delight of hearing the two merry voices constantly
echoing through the halls and woods of Belmont in sportive gladness ;
and the laugh of Nerissa herself could scarcely ring more clearly and
happily than that of his gifted but cheerful-hearted Portia. In playing
together, the two children seemed animated by one spirit; equally
buoyant, active, mirthftil, nay wild in their gayety of heart while sporting
about ; but in one point they differed materially. Nerissa was the
veriest little dunce that ever was ; neither frowns and threats from dame
Ursula, nor coaxings and rallyings, and pettings and teasings from Portia^
sould induce the little damsel ever to look into a volume ; whilst, on thf
contrary, Portia's chief delight continued to be the hours she spent with
Bellario and his books She was gay with Nerissa. but she was happy
with him.

48 PORTIA ;

It was perhaps fortunate for Portia that her young oompanion wae
thus indifferent to study; it made the hours spent with her, the
more completely a relaxation, and hy forming a wholesome contrast,
invigorated and refreshed her mind for new culture. With the giddy
little madcap Nerissa, the freedom and elation of spirit which character-
ized Portia, no less than her mental endowments and superiority of in-
tellect, found full scope ; and childhood sped merrily away.

Even the austere supervision of Madame Ursula was withdrawn;
for not many months after Nerissa's introduction to Belmont, the house-
keeper died. The stern dame was stricken into the eternal rigidity of
death ; and the waiting-woman Lisetta was heard to observe in her hard
way, that " the old lady looked scarcely more stiff, as a corpse, than she
had done when alive."

As years went on, Bellario*s hope of beholding his friend, grew
fainter and fainter ; and yet, in proportion as his hope waned, his desire
increased. Besides the yearning wish to look upon his face, he longed
for Guidons return with strengthening intensity, as he beheld the still-
improving graces of the daughter so rashly quitted. He longed to show
him the worth of the treasure he had relinquished ; to unfold to him the
sources of consolation he had abandoned, in the person of this dear
being, so worthy a representative of the sainted angel they had lost.
As he dwelt with rapture on the beautiful form and face of his
darling, and watched the expanding of her noble nature and capacious
mind, he pined to share so dear a privilege with the friend of his heart —
the being in the world best fitted to receive and enjoy delight from such
a source. Still Guide returned not ; and Bellario was fain to beguile
himself with the fancy that he cherished even a remote hope of the reward
he had once proposed to himself for his devotion to his friend's child.
Had he allowed himself honestly to question his reason, he would have
found how little faith he had left, that the delight of ever placing Portia
in a father's arms was yet in store for him ; but he continued his zealous
culture of her moral and mental excellences, as if to strengthen the
delusion he hugged the closer for its very instability.

Relieved, by the companionship of Nerissa. from any dread thai

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 49

Poitia might become too exolusively absorbed in serious trains of thought^
he could now freely permit her to indulge their mutual and increasing
taste for study together ; and he would often laughingly tell her, that
though she had no regular schooling, no masters, no accomplishments,
no womanly teaching, — no set education in short, yet that he should in
time make her an excellent scholar, and a most capital lawyer.

Bellario was an enthusiast in his profession ; and Portia loTed to
hear him dwell at length upon its attributes, its privileges, its powers,
and its value. He would descant upon his favorite theme ; and she,
well pleased to listen, would often introduce the subject, and urge and
induce him to continue its disquisition.

Then would he tell her of the divine origin of Law ; and dilate upft
its universal existence and influence. ^^ It is an emulation of God's own
wisdom,'* he would say, " who appointed laws unto himself as Creator of
the universe. The system of planets, the courses of stars, the processes
of vegetation and reproduction are all so many applications of force and
power, and ordained forms and measures of carrying out His will — and
are His manifest laws. The obedience of these Natural agents to the
laws of the Creator, set a sublime lesson to us voluntary agents, that we
may meekly conform to those Human Laws which have been the inspi-
ration of His Wisdom, and are the instruments of His Will upon earth.
Law acts as a perpetual memorial to man ; Divine and Natural laws
remind him of his duty to God ; Moral laws of his duty to himself; and
Human laws of his duty to his fellow-creatures. See," he continued,
" how the heathens themselves exalted Law — naming her Themis, and
deriving her from both heaven and earth, by making her the daughter of
Coelus and Terra ; one of their historians declaring her to be * queen of
gods and men.' Law unites mankind in a universal bond of fellowship,
gathering the human brotherhood beneath its wings ; teaching them the
wisdom of mutual regard and support, instead of leaving them to wan-
der in primeval and savage individuality of interest — each man's hand
against his brother. Men, by agreeing to conform to appointed laws,
yield individual judgment to the matured wisdom of the many ; and by
consenting to abide by such decrees, show that they prefer the common
good to a private indulgence — ^general order to single satisfaction."

5C po&Tu;

^ by taking the law in our own hands, we but perpetuate evil iu tho
world ; dealing a private revenge, instead of awarding a publicly sanc-
tioned punishment. Constituted law revenges not ; it chastises Law,
after its first universal love for the good of the human race, abjures pas-
sion ; and rewards or punishes, knowing neither love nor hate. Law
shows tenderness, only in the protection it affords to the weak against
the strong ; when it substitutes justice for the right of might."

" Law ascertains men's dues by no capricious standard ; it acts from
virtuous principle, not from impulse. • It promotes social order, and dif-
fuses harmonious concord. Men who will not act equitably and in
accordance with duty at a friend's suggestion, will often submit to the
Ame intimation from the Law, which they know to be indifferent, im-
partial, and nowise personal in its dictates ; and inasmuch as Reason is
insufficient to bind some men. Law was instituted to constrain and
enforce universal obedience. Would men but live honestly, hurt nobody,
and render to every one his due, the necessity of Law would cease, for iu
those three precepts are contained the essence of what Law exacts. Law
but seeks to establish man's true and substantial happiness. It sets
forth man's duties, and the penalties of transgressing them, for his
timely instruction and warning. Laws are the result of public appro-
bation and consent ; the act of the whole body politic, and not the edict
of one despotic mind. Law is one of the monuments of man's accumu-
lated wisdom ; like a vast intellectual temple, its range of columns stretch
through successive ages, ever receiving renewal and addition, without
destruction to the harmony of the universal edifice."

At another time he would tell her that Human Law, like all mortal
systems, was subject to error, both in its ordinance and dispensation.
" But law," said Bellario, ^* should ever err rather on the side of leniency
and mildness, than severity. Where laws are enacted of too stringent a
nature, and where the penalties inflicted are too rigorous in proportion
with the transgression they retaliate, an evasion of the due action of the
law frequently ensues, and thus the ends of justice are frustrated, by an
escape of punishment altogether. The object of correction is reform ;
tnd the penalty enforced should be so appropriate to the crime committed.

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 51

18 to excite universal acquiescence in its award. In passing sentence
clemency should ever take the precedence ; for better that many guilty
should escape, than one innocent suffer. A culprit may be reclaimed ;
but what too-tardy justice, however ample, may redress an undeserved
condemnation ? Mercy in all her aspects is the fairest sister of Justice.
She bestows on the crown its dearest prerogative — a privilege akin to
that of Heaven itself — when she reserves to the king the power of re-
versing doom, and granting ultimate pardon."

^' The practice of Law," he would say, '' induces Jiagnanimity. It
jcaches us tolerance towards the infirmities of our fellow-beings ; seeing
how the best natures may be warped by unkinHness, ingratitude, or in-
jury. It engenders compassion for human frailty ; forbearance on ac-
count of man's prejudices, mistakes, and ignorance ; pity for his imper-
fections, and desire for his enlightenment. It inculcates benevolence, pa-
tience, consideration. It bids us grieve over the evil we discover, and
wonder at the good we find hidden beneath rage, neglect, and destitu-
tion. It helps us to mature and chasten our judgment. It instructs us
to command our temper, and guard against the heat of feeling, to mod-
erate suspicion, and to avoid misconstruction. It reminds us that to be
just we must be calm, and that the faculties should be held clear, col-
lected, and alert. We should be ready to consider not only facts, but
the times and circumstances of facts. We should cultivate a retentive
memory, a patient and attentive habit of listening, acuteness of pene-
tration in observing, and an appreciation of physiognomy, expression,
and character. We should aim at general acquisition, as well as at pe-
culiar study ; and endeavor to enlarge the mind upon various subjects,
rather than narrow it by a too exclusive store of meie cases and pre-
cedents, so as to be enabled to decide in matters that befall otherwise
than consistently with recorded experience, and so as not to be taken
wholly by surprise when a totally new and original set of circumstances
M'ise and invest a case. Accomplishment in oratory as well as sound-
ness of judgment is essentially valuable, that you may not only carry
conviction by the train of your reasoning, and the strength of your ar-
guments, but that you may secure the attention, and win the favor of

SS PORTIA ;

the more superficial among your auditors, so as at once to •preposseii
them in favor of jour cause."

^' Might not we women make good advocates, then, cugino mio 7*
Portia would playfully ask ; " you know we are apt to speak eloquently
when our hearts are in a cause, and when we desire to win favor in ite
decision."

'' It is because your hearts generally take too active a part in any
cause you desire to win, that your sex would make but poor lawyers,
carina. Besides, women, though shrewd and quick judging, are apt to
jump too rapidly at conclusions, and mar the power of their understand-
ing by its too vivacious action. They are liable to decide upon delusive
inferences, and to arrive at false convictions. In the exercise of their
discernment, they will frequently triumph too early in the discovery of
an advantage ; and it is the part of a clever lawyer not to betray his
own strength and his adversary's weakness to soon. To skilfully treas-
ure up each point successively gained, and by a tardy unmasking of
your own plan of action, to lead your opponent on to other and more
sure committals of himself, is more consonant with the operation of a
man's mind, than suited to the eager, impulsive nature of woman. Her
wit is more keen, than her understanding is sedate."

" Well, one day or other you may be brought to acknowledge that
I could make a profound lawyer," replied the smiling Portia ; " am I
not your disciple ? and must not the pupil of the learned Doctor Bella-
rio needs become so if she choose ?"

" My Portia will become quite as proficient as I could wish her, if
she know enough of law tc manage worthily and justly her own estate
by and by," answered he ; " and it is with the thought that she will here-
after be called upon as lady of Belmont, to rule her tenantry, to adjust
their rights, to settle their differences, to decide their claims, and to se-
cure their welfare, that I allow her to cr'^ss-question me upon the mys-
teries of law as she has done. And so now, that I may not make an
absolute pedant of you, a jurisconsult in petticoats, a lawyer in a girl's
white dress instead of a sober silk gown, go call Nerissa to have a game
at ball with you in the avenue, till I come and join you, that we may
take a long walk together."

THE HEI&ESS OF BELMONT. 53

And still time crept on : and the young girl grew almost into the
beautiful woman. Her slight childish figure had rounded into graceful
proportions; her deportment had assumed more high-hred ease and
polish ; her countenance shone with brighter intelligence ; and her voice
and manner, without losiug their native sweetness, had acquired a tone
of command and dignity well suited to the lady of Belmont. But the
profusion of golden locks which waved upon her shoulders, and the un-
clouded spirits that bounded in her elastic step, and sparkled in her lips
and eyes, bespoke her youth, and her happy innocent natura She
looked still the child, in some things.

It was the morning on which she completed her seventeenth year.
She entered the library where Bellario sat, and as she stepped forward
to present him with a rare old volume of poetry and a heap of blushing
dew-covered flowers which she had just gathered as a birthday token,
she looked so radiant with happiness and beauty, that he involuntarily
gazed at her as he would have done at a beautiful vision — an impersona-
tion of childhood on the verge of womanhood. Her fair hair, partly
disordered by the eagerness with which she had collected her flowers
regardless of thorns, spray, drooping leaves, or sweeping branches ; her
cheeks glowing with morning air and exercise ; her April eyes, bright
with mingled smiles and tears, as she greeted him who had been father
and brother both in one to her infancy and girlhood ; her tender looks,
her gentle sweetness, her loving manner, half lavish, half timid, while
contending with all the strong emotion that filled her heart towards him,
as she knelt upon the cushion at his feet, and laid her head caressingly
upon his knee, all made him fancy her a little fondling child again.
But when, some minutes after, she stood at his side, discussing with en-
thusiasm the beauties of the poet whose richly-emblazoned volume she
held in her hand ; when her eyes beamed with intelligence, her figure
dilated with the energy of her appreciation of lofty sentiment and dar-
ing imagination, her tone thrilled with admiration and awe, and her
whole appearance was instinct with elevation and sublimity of thought,
Bellario felt that he gazed upon a sentient, high-minded woman — one
capable of bearing her part in the great drama of life, and of influencing
the destinies of others by her intellect^ her sentiment, her aetions.

54 PORTIA ;

In acknowledging her birthday-gift, Bellario told Portia that he had
chosen this occasion for the fulfilment of a desire she had expressed, that
a band of household musicians might be added to the retainers of Bel-
mont. He said, they had been appointed to come from Venice on this
very day, in honor of the event, and he felt somewhat surprised thai
they had not already arrived.

" But we will contrive to spend the day happily, notwithstanding,
added he ; ^' we will forego the pleasure of music for one day more ; and
meantime we will order the horses and take one of our long rambles
together. You cannot remember the time, my Portia, when one horse
served well for us both, and you needed no other seat than my saddle-
bow?"

" It seems as though that, and all other particulars of the season
when your arms were my only support, even from the very moment
when I first was placed a mere infant within them, lived in my memory,
as truly as it does in my heart's core," replied she.

They rode that day, far and wide through the domains of Belmont
They visited the waterfall, deep in the recesses of the wood, and as they
guided their horses down the steep path of the briery dell, and listened
to the soft rustling of the leaves, the warbled song of birds, the hum of
insects, and the murmur of the cascade, Bellario's voice would subduedly
chime in with those sounds of Nature, telling her of the growth oT her
parent's love, of their noble qualities, of their worthiness of each other,
and of the happy pride with which he himself had shared in the friend-
ship which united the three.

They lingered beneath the group of ruins, which had once formed
the object of a memorable walk, and Bellario told her of the unselfish
fortitude with which her mother had sought to conceal her fatigue, of
her generous impetuous father, of the feelings which he had since de-
tected were liugering in the hearts of each, and of his own complete
blindness to the lovers' increasing passion for each other.

'^ I have often wondered since, how I could have failed to note what
was passing beneath my very eyes, so closely concerning two beings
whom I loved so well," said Bellario ; ^' and two beings, also, who were

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 55

dingularly transparent and unreserved. Mj sister's nature was pure,
ingenuous, and simple, and her every thought seemed unveiled, as you
looked into her olear eyes ; your father's ardent sensibility glowed in
every expression of his look and voice, and perfect candor dwelt upon
his brow. Every emotion of that noble heart seemed written in his
countenance ; and never had generous impulses fairer and truer trans-
cript than in the manly beauty of my friend's face."

^ I feel as if I should know that face, meet it how or where I might,"
said Portia, in a low voice.

" God grant that we may one day behold it," replied Bellario ; " but
it must needs be strangely changed. Suffering, grief, wanderings, year?
of absence ; — perhaps even I might not now know my Guido."

That evening, while the two cousins were pacing the moonlit avenue
together, Nerissa's blithe voice was heard from the terrace, announcing
the arrival of the expected musicians.

'^ Come in, madam," cried she in high glee, ^' come in quickly, for ihe
love of laughter ! If these same players have as ill-favored fingers as
features, if their instruments yield a sound as coarse as their suits, if
they have no better sets of tunes than teeth, or no tones less sharp than
their noses, we are like to have but sorry music. But come and see
them, and tell me if you have ever seen a more wry-necked, ill-dressed,
ugly set of grotesque figures than your ladyship's musicians elect.
There is one fellow's crooked nose, puckered eyes, puffed cheeks, and
pinched lips, that make him look for all the world like a head on the
rainspout of a church."

The girl hurried back, as she spoke ; and Bellario leading Portia to
the terrace-steps, kissed her hand, and told her he would join her in a
few moments to try whether they might not forget the plain persons of
the musicians in the music they played. Meanwhile, he paced the
avenue, full of a thought which had that day pressed heavily upon him.
His first perception that now his charge was no longer a child, his con-
viction that she had actually grown into a lovely woman, was accompa«.
nied with the thought that he had no right to detain her in solitude,
apart from that world where she might shine, imparting and receiving a

56 Fo&TiA ;

more extended happiness. He felt that he ought not to confine hei
sphere of existence to so limited a range as that which had hithertc
formed the boundaries of Portia's experience. He knew that the heiress
of Belmont should now be introduced into a wider circle than she had
hitherto known, that she might form her judgment of mankind itself
while she matured and enlarged the store of knowledge she had hitherto
reaped from books alone.

" Were her father but here to aid me with his counsel," thought he.
"Who so qualified to decide a daughter's conduct? Who so proper to
lead her among her fit associates ? Who so meet to assist her in their
selection, and to guide her in a still more important choice ? For she
will marry — she ought — she must ; — so fair, so gifted a creature will
one day bless and be blest by a man worthy of her. But how to dis-
cover him V

In a deep reverie, Bellario threw himself upon a low grassy bank
that swelled from the turf of the avenue. The bank itself was in the
full light of the moon ; but it was near to the trees, which cast a deep
shadow within a few yards of where he sat.

As the thought of his beloved friend again vibrated through his heart
with a passionate yearning, he almost articulated the name of Guide in
the deep sigh he breathed.

A sigh still more pBofound responded to his own. He started up in
surprise, that any one should be so near ; when a figure emerged from
the dark shadow of the trees, and stood mutely before him. Bellario
gazed strangely upon the countenance he beheld ; for in no lineament
of that pale, haggard face, — neither in the flattened temple, the sunken
cheek, the contracted mouth, or in the dull and wistful eyes, could he
trace any memorial of the youthful image that dweU* in his heart's r&
membrance.

But when the stranger staggered forward, and putting one hand upon
his shoulder, muttered huskily *• Bellario !'* the voice revealed all ; and
with the rapturous conviction that it was Guido indeed returned, ho
strained his long-lost friend in his arms, and felt the terrible thirst ol
years appeased.

THE HEIRESS OP BELMONT. 57

A few hasty words sufficed to tell the story of his absence ; for Guido
oared not to dwell upon the circumstances of that dark period of exile
and anguish. In the transports of his despair, he had fled from the
scenes of his buried happiness, and wandering away to the coast, had
embarked and set sail for the East, where, amid rocky deserts and sandy
plains, he had dragged on a weary existence, in ascetic solitude, unable
to endure the sight of his fellow-men. In latter years the first torture
of his gi*ief had yielded to a craving desire to behold the child, whom
he still could not help regarding in the light of one who had been the
destruction of his earthly happiness — of one whose birth had caused the
death of her whom he loved better than life. And still his anxiety to
look upon this innocent murderer grew stronger and stronger ; and at
length it arose to a strange fascination, and had determined him to en-
dure all, — to brave the torment of revived sorrows, that he might satisfy
this burning wish.

" I long, yet dread to see this child," he concluded, with a wild sad.
ness in his manner, which had something almost fierce in its eagerness ;
" show it to me, give it me. Bellario ! I will not injure it, I will not
harm a hair of its young head ! Though it killed her, yet it is her
child ! Where is it, Bellario ?"

" She left me but now," replied Bellario calmly, trying to soothe his
friend's perturbation ; " you think of her as a child, forgetful that seven-
teen years have elapsed. She is now a beautiful woman ; she quitted me
but a few moments before I beheld you."

" That fair creature whom you led to the terrace, then, was

Gracious heaven ! I have seen her I My child ! I fancied that fair
being by your side was your own, your wife ! A second such delusion !
And are you indeed destined to bestow upon me another Portia ?"

A strain of music arose at this moment. Solemn, sweet, and exqui-
Bitely tender was the melody that came wafted towards them upon the
night air ; it seemed vouchsafed, consolingly ministrant to the wounded
spirit of Guido, that his long-pent heart might find relief in the tears
which flowed responsive to these appealing sounds.

Bellario hailed the benign influence ; but suddenly he laid his hand

68 PORTIA ;

npon his friend's arm, and pointing towards the terrace, he whiflpered
— " She comes ; control your own agitation, my friend, that you may
spare hers."

Guido gazed in the direction indicated ; he beheld one of the win-
dows that opened on to the ground, thrown back, and a flood of light
from the saloon, together with a swelling burst of the harmony, accom-
panied forth a radiant figure that stepped out upon the terrace, and took
its way towards them. The white raiment, the floating golden hair, the
graceful mien, the spiritual look, as she approached bathed in the full
glory of the moonbeams, made her seem a seraph sent by pitying
Heaven, and Ouido stretched forth his arms, as towards a celestial har-
binger of happiness.

As she reached the spot where they stood, Bellario took her hand,
and said in his calm impressive voice : — " Remember your words of this
morning, my Portia. Does your heart tell you whose is the face you
look upon ?"

'' My father !" she exclaimed : and the parent and child savored the
ineffable transport of a first embrace.

Guido thus restored to them, the happiness of Portia and Bellario
seemed now complete; while the Count, in discovering the fruitful
source of comfort and joy existing for him in the person of his child,
wondered how he could have voluntarily remained dead to its enjoyment
during that long and dreary period of self-imposed banishment. Thus
blindly does mortal judgment err in its choice of what may constitute
its own felicity ; casting forth its trust in Providential care, forsaking
appointed consolation, and dully embracing woe for its portion. But
now, his eagerness to duly estimate the treasure he possessed, partook
of all the characteristic ardor of his nature. His love for this new-
found daughter amounted to idolatry ; and in the passionate desire he
felt to retain her ever in his sight, it seemed as though he sought to
indemnify himself for the years of separation already suffered to elapse.
In his craving wish to behold her unceasingly, to enjoy her presence ex-
clusively, he would fain have engrossed her thoughts as she absorbed
his, and he almost jealously beheld her eyes, her words her attention

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 59

directed to any other object but himself. There was a kind of dread, a
misgiving that he could not occupy her heart as she did his ; and in the
humiliating consciousness that if this were the case, he could alone
blame his own rash exile from the child whose love he might have
secured, a feverish inquietude mingled with his present happiness, and
threatened to embitter its fruition.

Bellario noted the struggle existing in his friend's mind, and well
knew how to deal tenderly with such a mood of affection. He could
compassionate its sufferings, forgive its involuntary injustice,* and minister
to its relief. Accordingly he determined to quit them for a time, that
the father and daughter might be thrown solely upon each other's re-
sources ; and, by being constantly and uninterruptedly together, they
might thus learn to find their mutual happiness in one another alone.

A cause imperatively requiring his personal presence formed suf-
ficient pretext for his absence ; and after confiding to his friend the
anxiety he felt respecting Portia's future introduction into more general
society, when they should have enjoyed a sufficient period of tranquil
seclusion together, Bellario left Belmont, and retired to Padua, where
he had always maintained a modest establishment of his own, for the
reception of clients, and in transacting the business of his profession ;
as well as that he might indulge the old love of independence which had
ever characterized him.

Here, he had the delight of learning from Portia the complete suc-
cess of his scheme. In the frequent correspondence she maintained
with her beloved cousin, the restored serenity of her father, the affection
that reigned between them, the happiness of their present existence,
which knew no abatement to the fulness of its perfection save the want
of Bellario's presence, formed the conilant theme of her pen, and caused
him to rejoice that he had acted as he had done. He knew, too, that
this bond of mutual affection, thus daily knit and strengthened, would
cause them only the more to depend upon each other, when they should
come to encounter the world, and be surrounded by indifferent people ;
and he could now await with security the period of Portia's presentation
under a Other's auspices.

Portia;

Meantime, Guido's confidence in the love existing between his
daughter and himself had also acquired firmness. He could no longer
entertain a misgiving of the fondness that dwelt in every look, that
prompted every action, that lent sweetness to every tone, and dictated
every word, as she hovered perpetually near him, evidently drawing as
much delight from his vicinity as he from hers. He could not doubt the
interpretation of the joy that played in her smiles when she saw him ap-
proach, the eagerness that impelled her towards him, the beaming eyes
that met his* in soft response, or the warmth with which his paternal
caresses were welcomed, and returned by her filial ones. He felt that
his Portia was indeed fully and entirely his own ; and his satisfied heart
flowed in rapturous thanksgiving to the Almighty, for so gracious a
boon.

As his faith in her love became assured, he called to mind what Bel-
lario had said respecting her introduction in life, and he felt that he had
now courage to risk the intrusion of other objects upon her time and at
tention, secure that he himself was paramount in her regard.

He accordingly consulted with her upon the appointment of a day
when he should invite all the families with whom his own had formerly
held intercourse and intimacy, to meet at Belmont in celebration of his
return, and thus to renew those connections which had been broken by
his absence.

" In presenting my Portia to the noble ladies of the houses of Mau-
frini and Barberigo ; to the several families of Montenegri, Sforza, Fos-
cari, and others of my friends and kindred, I shall oflfer my best apology
for venturing to ask a renewal of what I forfeited by my own neglect ;
and they will readily accede to a reconciliation with the father for the
Bake of his daught<jr, that they may obtain her society."

" If my father flatter his daughter thus," said Portia gayly, " she
need fear no spoiling from flatterers abroad. The veriest courtier of them
all could scarce find prettier speeches than Count Gruido, when he chooses
to praise his Portia."

" It is in order that her giddy head may be steadied betimes," replied he
in the same tone, ^' and learn to bear all the flood of nonsense that will
be poured into her ears by and by, without being turned ever after."

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 61

»< And 80, to prevent me from wearing my head like a weathercock oi
ft mill-wheel by and by, you^ll risk stuffing it wi^h vanity now. This is
willing me to be presently vain, lest I become a vane: and leads me into
the sin of vain talking."

" Then leave vain talking, and hearken seriously to a story I have to
tell thee touching a member of one of those noble families, whom I mean
to be among our guests at our approaching festival. The young Mar-
quis of Montferrat is able to tell a witching tale in a fair lady's ear, I
doubt not, like one of those flatterers we spoke of but now ; for he is a
likely gallant, handsome, brave, and courteous."

^^ A good beginning to your story, padre mio ; ' handsome, brave,
and courteous !' What follows 1 Generous, accomplished, witty, per-
haps ? What is your sequel ?"

" This gentleman is the sole surviving representative of the rich and
noble bouse of Montferrat, famed for the splendor of their taste at home,
and for the renown of their arms abroad. The young Marquis, some
months since, happened to- be indulging his Venetian predilection for
fhe Adriatic, by coasting along her shores with some young friends in
the pleasure-galley he has for such marine excursions. One day the
party had landed to enjoy the beauty of the scenery, and had caused
their noontide repast to be brought from the vessel by their attendants,
and spread beneath the shade of some trees that formed a group round
a spot of attractive coolness. They drooped over a spring of fresh water,
which welled and bubbled forth like Galatea's transformed love, taking
its pellucid way in meandering streams across the plains towards the sea,
as if it sought to join its white mistress once again and for ever."

" The young gallants had finished their repast," continued Guide,
^^ and had most of tbem wandered away in different directions amid the
neighboring woods in search of sport, or led by curiosity ; only two or
three attendants remained near the spot to collect the plate and various
utensils before leturning to the ship. But the fulfilment of this duty
was postponed, and the men were indulging in a game of Mora, car-
ried on somewhat apart, and in as subdued a key as the excitement of
play would permit (gradually arising from sotto voce to eager crescendo

.t2 PORTU ;

and sforzando), under pretence of being unwilling to disturb their young
master with the clatter of the glass and silver during his slumber ; for
the Marquis had fallen back upon the soft grass, and had yielded to the
soothing influence of the scene and the combined geniality of the late
feast, in a siesta.'^

'* At this moment, three or four brigands, belonging to a band that
infested this quarter, and had their lurking-place in the adjoining woods,
rushed forwards in hope of making an easy spoil of the gold and silver
plate which lay spread around, and had doubtless lured them to the spot.
The scared domestics fled ; and the ruffians were about to make sure of
the sleeping nobleman, by stabbing him at once, when a travel-worn
stranger suddenly came up, and by opposing the cowardly attack, roused
the Marquis, who was thus enabled to draw his sword, and assist the
traveller in their joint defence."

^^ The noise of the affray soon recalled the dispersed company ; and
as the gentlemen of the party successively hurried to the spot to the
rescue of their friend, the brigands fled before this reinforcement."

^ The Marquis and his company now surrounded the traveller, and
offered him their thanks for his timely succour, with an earnestness
more the result of their own courtesy, than due to the service rendered,
which was no more than an act of common christian charity."

" You tell me who was the traveller, in thus underrating the gallantry
of his behaviour, padre mio," interrupted Portia ; " nobody but Ouido
di Belmonte himself, would thus talk of the act that saved a man's life."

*^ The Marquis more than requited the service, in his profuse ao-
knowledgments, his generous treatment of a stranger, and the kindness
and zeal with which he sought to promote his wishes when he found that
*he traveller was eager to proceed on his journey, which had been de-
layed by an adverse accident that had compelled him to land, a day or
two before, from the vessel, in which he had been sailing from the East,
and which was bound to Venice. He entreated him to use his galley,
fo direct its course whithersoever he might desire ; and said that he and
liis company would proudly escort him to his destination. They accord-
ingly set sail for Venice immediately, entertaining him as an honored

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. Oa

guest during their course thither; and when they discovered that a pro*
found sorrow which possessed him wholly prevented the stranger from
participating in their revelry, these gentlemen discreetly forbore to in-
trude upon bis grief, leaving him to indulge his solitude undisturbed and
respected."

" When, however, the galley made the port of Venice, and the stranger
and his entertainers were about to take leave, the Marquis begged to
know the name of the man to whom he felt himself obliged ; and he, in
his turn, feeling that a mere cold adieu was but poor requital for the
courtesy and kindness he had received at the hands of the generous
young nobleman, confided to him the sorrowful story of his life, and told
him that should he ever know a period of restored tranquility and peace
of mind, he would entreat him to come and see if Casa Belmonte could
yield as pleasant entertainment and welcome, as he had met with on
board the galley * Aglaia.' With this compact we parted ; and now
that I have indeed found greater happiness than I ever dared to hope
for again, I mean to invite my noble young friend hither, that he may
behold its existence and its source. So good a heart as his, will not fail
to rejoice in my joy ; so high a taste as his for all that is rare and beau-
teous, must needs be struck with the cause of that joy — my child, my
Portia. I would now, methinks, have all my friends behold her father's
treasure ; and see how bounteous Heaven, in her, repays him for all
sorrows past."

As Guide finished speaking, his faithful servant Balthazar came to
apprise him that his steward was awaiting an audience in the library,
with some papers relative to the estate, which required inspection and
signature.

The Count withdrew to the library, bidding his daughter join him
there as soon as the steward should have retired, that they might write
the invitations for the approaching festival, and despatch messengers
with them to the several families in Venice and elsewhere.

Portia remained bending over her work, lost in thought, but Nerissa,
who was seated at the embroidery-frame, assisting her lady, yet main-
taining a discreet silence in the presence of the Count, now gave free

64 POKTIA ;

course to ber usual liveliness of speech. The ciroumstances of ihdt
early companionship, the unrestrained intercourse of the South between
mistress and attendant, the gay pleasant nature of Nerissa herself, aa
well as the happy spirits of Portia, all tended to preserve their freedom
and ease of intimacy little less than that which had subsisted between
the two, when children together.

" What think you. madam, of your father's story ?"

*' That it shows him, as I have known him ever, through my cousin
Bellario's knowledge ;" answered Portia. " The facts of the tale bhowed
him to be, what his modesty in the telling would fain have hidden —
ardent, brave, and generous."

'' Ay, that is what he would fain have had you believe the Marquis
to be," said Nerissa. " And yet from the story I could find no such
thing. The gallant was asleep when he should have been awake, which
tells not much for his ardor ; he drew his sword, indeed, but we heard
not that he used it — or if he did, it was to save his own life when it was
nard beset, which is no great argument of his bravery — surely, any com-
mon sworder would do as much ; then as for his courtesy and generosity,
a galley that follows no course but pleasure, has no appointed haven but
amusement, its master makes no wonderful sacrifice in letting its sailing-
orders be at another man's bidding; and though my lord the Count
talked of the Marquis and his friend's discretion in respecting his grief
by leaving him in solitude, it seems they had no thought of moderating
their own gayety and revelry.''

*• The hero of the story seems to have won no favor of you, Nerissa,"
said her mistress.

" None, lady ; and yet I fancy your father intended that his hero
should seem one in your eyes, whatever he might in mine. But we
shall see what he is like, when the festival brings the Marquis of Mont*
ferrat, with the rest, to Belmont."

And now the thought of this approaching festival engaged every
member of the household, that due splendor and eflfoct might preside in
all its arrangements to do honor to two such interesting occasions, as the
return of Count Ouido to his patrimony of Belmont, and the presenta*

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. . G&

tion of his beautiful daughter to the ancient friends of the family. Bel-
lario was entreated to be present, that they might have the delight of
seeing him lend weight and honor to the reception of the guests, by the
illustrious and learned reputation of his name.

It may well be believed that this tender friend himself eagerly
seized this occasion of beholding his Portia's first entrance upon the
arena of life ; of marking how she should put into practice those maxims
he had instilled, how remember those precepts he had inculcated, how
act upon those principles he had implanted. He longed to see how her
native dignity would support her through such a trial to her modesty
as the first introduction to so large an assemblage of distinguished per-
sons would needs be ; he longed to see her courtesy have wide field, her
wit free play, her beauty extended admiration, her graces universal
acknowledgment.

His love was no less ardent than her father's ; for while G-uido's was
a sort of rapturous fondness towards this child of affection, Bellario's
partook of esteem and regard for those intrinsic qualities which he knew
her to possess, and which he had watched and cherished from their
earliest germ to their fullest development. It was with almost equal
pride and delight therefore, that these two loving guardians beheld the
object of their tenderest thoughts fulfil all that even they could have
anticipated of excellence in her own person and demeanor, while she
won universal homage from those around. The ladies commended her
modest dignity and self-possession, expressing their hope that it would
not be long ere they drew amongst them so bright an ornament as she
would prove to their Venetian circle ; the noblemen, one and all con-
gratulated the happy father of so fair and accomplished a maiden ; and
the young gallants vied with each other in adulation, compliments,
attentions, and endeavors to attract her regard.

Among these latter, the foremost was the Marquis of Montferrat.
He at once placed himself among the rank of her avowed admirers ;
and from the marked courtesy and warmth of the reception with which
hex father had welcomed him, he seemed to have already gained a priority
^f claim and advantage above his fellows. Of this superiority he seemed

66 PORTIA ;

fully coDscious, from the air of triumph and assured success thai
sparkled in his eyes when he addressed her, and which pervaded his
manner towards them. It shone insinuatingly and languishingly in hia
looks to her ; it flashed haughtily and defyingly upon them.

Nerissa, who leaned upon the back of her lady's seat (which waa in
one of the alcoves in the grounds, and formed a sort of sylvan throno
for her to receive her train of admirers, anxious to tender their homage
to her charms, and pay their court to her good graces), found early occa-
sion to whisper : — ^' Your father's report of the handsome looks of the
hero of his story, is as false as his estimation of his other qualities.
The Marquis is scarce better looking than your ladyship's musicians ;
who, like their brethren, the singing-birds, have the plainer the exterior,
the better their song."

" Nay," returned Portia in the same tone, " the prejudice you took,
even ere you saw the Marquis, lets you render him but scant justice.
He is handsome, but he knows it too well. His vanity mars his straight
nose, his arrogance blurs his smooth complexion, his conceit puts out his
eyes, and I can hardly see his good looks for his assurance."

'^ There is one among the company, who surpasses him in good looks
a hundredfold, to my thinking," said Nerissa ; ^^ the young cavalier in
the murrey doublet, yonder, who is listening to something that the
Marquis is telling. Do you see him whom I mean, Madam ? Such
eyes as those are worthy a lady's look, and the mouth seems as if it
could say something worth her hearing ; which I'm sure is more than
can be said for my lord Marquis's eyes and mouth."

Portia answered not, but Nerissa could see that her mistress had
distinguished the gentleman, for she was looking steadily upon his face,
which was slightly averted, and presented only its profile to her gaze.

Nerissa tripped away from her lady, to try and learn who he was ;
and soon heard that he was the Lord Ba&sanio, one of the friends and
associates of the Marquis of Montferrat.

" They are two foolish young men," continued her informant, who
was a grey-headed old gentleman, one of the guests ; ^' they try who
3an spend their money fastest and least wisely. Even the princely for-

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 67

tune which the Marquis inherited from his worthy father, is speedily
dwindling ; and as for the young Lord Bassanio, it is whispered that he
must shortly be ruined by such a perpetual round of extravagance as
he indulges in, to please this friend of his, whom he emulates in all his
follies though not in his vices. Bassanio bears an unblemished reputa-
tion for honor and integrity, while the Marquis "

The old gentleman paused, and Nerissa could extract no further in-
formation from him, respecting the objects of her curiosity. But this
was now thoroughly roused ; and she determined to spare no pains to
satisfy it entirely.' The more she saw of the Marquis of Montferrat,
the more did she find the prejudice she had originally conceived against
him, strengthen and increase ; and the more she saw of the Count di
Belmonte*s conduct towards this young nobleman, the more did she feel
confirmed in the surmise she had at first formed, that he intended him
to win his way to the good graces of Portia, and to become eventually
his son-in-law. She resolved to communicate her suspicions to Doctor
Bellario, that his wiser counsel might decide.

She found that his observation had led him to much the same con-
clusions, with her own ; but, merely commending her vigilance and pru-
dence, and cautioning her against speaking farther on the matter to any
one beside himself, he bade her rely upon him for the necessary inqui-
ries, and for an ultimate satisfactory termination.

Before he quitted Belmont, Bellario took occasion to speak to his
friend upon the subject of this new acquaintance, the Marquis of Mont-
ferrat.

Guido, with his usual warmth of manner, dwelt upon the many ex-
cellencies that distinguished this young gentleman ; repeated the origin
of their acquaintance in testimony of the bravery and generosity of hie
character ; and said that all he had since seen of him confirmed his ad-
miration of his personal qualities.

" Be quite sure, my dear friend, that these personal qualities are not
fche only ones that distinguish him ;" replied Bellario ; " ascertain that
his liandsome face and figure be not his only graces ; and that the ex-
tent of his worth exists not solely in your generosity of imagination—
which has faith for every excellence in others."

68 Portia;

'* And are not you lawyers apt to be too skeptical in the existence of
human goodness ?" asked Guido, smiling. '- Do you not too often ima*
gine every stranger an enemy till you know him ?"

" On the contrary, we would have every man believed innocent, till
he prove guilty ;" replied Bellario in the same manner. " But," resumed
he in his original graver tone, *• for Portia's sake, be quite sure he if
worthy her regard, before you introduce him too frequently or too en-
couragingly to her notice."

'' He is to be here again in a few days by my invitation ;" replied
Guido. " I asked him to spend some time with us. He is the son of a
most worthy father, a scion of a most noble and honorable family, and
he himself is an accomplished and right gallant gentleman. You surely
do him wrong, to misdoubt that he is all he seems ; and if he be all he
seems, he would form no unfitting match, even^for our Portia."

" He must be worthy indeed, who deserves her ;" was all BcJario's
reply ; for he resolved to say no more, till he could speak with better
knowledge. He therefore bade his friends adieu, and took his depar-
ture, determined to lose no time in obtaining accurate information rela-
tive to the character and habits of the Manjuis of Montferrrat.

Belmont had scarcely time to recover its wonted serenity of aspect,
after the departure of the bevy of visitors who had attended the late
festival, when the young Marquis and his train returned, and by their
arrival a^rain thronged its tranquil precincts with gay equipages, horses,
hounds, hawks, and troops of liveried attendants.

His retinue was so numerous, and its appointments so costly, that it
showed like that of a sovereign prince, rather than that of a private gen-
tleman. But in this profusion, the Count beheld only evidences of a
magnificent taste on the part of the Marquis de Montferrat, and an ad-
ditional instance of the refinement and luxury which directed the
expenditure of a rich young nobleman.

On Portia, all this display seemed to produce little effect ; any more
than the flattering importunities, compliments, and assiduous attentions
with which he personally besieged her. She received all his admiring
speeches with either a lofty acquiescence, as if homage were a part of

THE HEIRESS OP BELMONT. 69

her birthright ; or with a sportive gayety, as if they were more idle gal-
lantry and matter of trivial unconcern. She heard all eulogy on her
beauty with sovereign indifference, and treated all compliments to her
wit, as a challenge to exercise its least merciful powers on the adulator
himself. Portia, ever distinguished for courtesy and true dignity, would
have treated a less confident suitor with no such haughtiness ; but the
pertinacity and assurance of this Marquis left her scarcely any other
alternative. He seemed determined not to be repelled ; while he con-
trived that it should appear as if the strength of his passion alone in-
duced him to yield such implicit submission to the caprice he deplored.

This was the light in which his behavior appeared to the Count ;
who believed him to have conceived an ardent and sincere love for his
Portia.

Not so Nerissa ; who, in witnessing any of these instances of the
suitor's paraded deference, would not fail to remark, that where a man
accepted with undue passiveness the tyranny of his mistress, he not un-
frequently did so with the view of securing a slave in his future wife.

But at length the increasing scorn with which Portia treated the dis-
tasteful assiduity of the Marquis, struck her father as being beyond the
gay disdain which ladies are sometimes accustomed to affect towards
their wooers ; and he was one evening walking in the avenue, his
thoughts employed with this subject, when a messenger approached at a
smart gallop, and seeing the Count, placed a letter in his hands, and
rode on.

Guido read as follows :

" Dear friend and brother,

I possess undoubted proofs that the Marquis is a notorious
and confirmed gambler, and an unscrupulous libertine. Until I can
myself bring you these proofs, believe that this accusation is not made
lightly, or without sufficient warrant. Suffer not such a presence
longer to sully the pure atmosphere of Belmont ; nor let a too late heed
of my intelligence injure our Portia to the latest term of her life.

Your faithfully devoted

Bellario."

70 PORTIA ;

Ouido remained for a moment as if stunned ; then recovering him-
self, he was hastening to the house with the thought of rescuing hii
child instantly from the contamination of such a guest's presence ; when
he heard voices near which convinced him that the Marquis was not
then with Portia. There was one department of the gardens of Bel-
mont which ran parallel with the avenue, and which was divided from it
only by a thick hedge of myrtle. From immediately the other side of
this hedge the voices proceeded, and the Count at once discovered that
they were those of the Marquis and Nerissa.

" Do not detain me, my lord ;" he heard the latter say, *• my lady sent
me for these roses, and she will be impatient at my delay."

" Nay, fairest of waiting-maids," replied the voice of the Marquis,
whose accents betrayed that he was flushed with wine, " do not imitate
the airs of that dignified piece of frost-work, your mistress, but listen
while I tell you how far you transcend her in beauty. By heaven !
were she not heiress of Belmont, she would seem but a paltry weed to
you, my flower of. lovelipess !"

" Good my lord gardener, let both the weed and the flower alone ;
they neither of them seek to be your prize-blossoms, I'll warrant you ;"
replied Nerissa, with her usual vivacity ; but the next moment she added
in increasing alarm, " let go my hands, my lord !"

*• Not till I have gathered some of the flower*s fragrance from its
blooming cup, — those rosy lips," he cried; '-not till I have said "

" Say what you please, my lord Marquis, but do not hold me ; let
me go !"

" Hear me say this, then ;" he suddenly stooped, and whispered in
her ear.

" Foul villain lord !" she exclaimed vehemently ; and the next instant
uttered a piercing scream.

The Count flung open a small wicket gate that led through the myrtle
hedge, and stood before them

The Marquis quitted his grasp of Nerissa, and made a faint attempt
at some laughing excuse ; but he read in the stern countenance of the
father, that the gross insult of his behavior was discovered.

THE HEIBESS OF BELMONT. 7 1

'^ Return to the house, Nerissa," said the Count after a pause, " and
desire the Marquis of Montferrat's servants to assemble their master's
retinue, and prepare his equipage, as he intends quitting Belmont imme-
duftely. Your lordship will excuse this abrupt leave-taking," added he,
'' when I inform jou that I have overheard your late -^nversation with
my daughter^ waiting-maid, and that I have good authority for believing
that to the arts of a seducer, the Marquis of Montferrat adds other ac-
complishments equally opposed to the qualifications I require in a friend
or guest."

He bowed haughtily, turning on his heel, as he concluded ; while the
Marquis returned his bow as haughtily, 'n silence, and, hastening away,
in less than half an hour had quitted Belmont for ever.

Count Guide remained in bitter reverie. *• So much for my perspi-
cacity," thought he, '^ in judging of the qualities of the man I chose for
a friend, and whom I might have gone on to wish should be my son-in-
law, — my Portia's husband ! And to a mere trick of fancy, to a poor
credulity, which Bellario would fain call generosity, and faith in good-
ness, because it characterizes me, — to this miserable blindness of mine,
might my child have been sacrificed I It was just such blinded judg-
ment that led me to cast away the means of consolation vouchsafed by
Heaven, and fly from the fresh well-spring of joy contained in my infant
daughter, to bury myself in arid oriental solitude. Little has my own
poor judgment bested me in my course through life. Better to refer all
things to chance, even things of greatest moment, than decide them by
80 erring, so worthless a guide, as judgment of mine. Chance once be-
friended me beyond all the judgment I ever exercised. It was chance
that determined my return, and led me to the first beholding of my love,
my sainted Portia. And shall not chance prove a better trust than
judgment ?"

He lingered in such dark thoughts of bitterness and self-reproach,
until at length his daughter came to seek him, wooing him to return
with her to the house, lest too late wandering beneath the trees in the
night air should injure his health, which had never been strong since
the period of his absence. Long fasts, neglect, gnawing sorrow, during

72 poll 'HA ;

his sojourn in the desert ; with, latterly, a restless desire fur retnn
thence, had totally undermined his constitution, rendering him th«
wasted, worn, altered being, whom his friend had failed to recogniie on
his return home, for the once blooming, animated Guido di Belmonte.
The reaction of delight, in discovering his daughter to be so fertile a
source of happiness, had at first exercised a salutary effect; •but now hia
slowly-engendered malady assumed a more decided form, and his health
and strength ¥A3re evidently failing.

He was perfectly aware of his own declining state ; but his chief
anxiety was to prevent it from being perceived by his daughter ; he care-
fully withheld from her his sleepless nights, his unequal pulse, and the
constant fever that consumed him. He made ceaseless pretexts to veil
his loss of appetite, his varying spirits, his parching thirst, from her ob-
servation ; and when he noted her affectionate eye dwelling upon the wan
and wasted cheek, when he felt her fresh palm linger inquiringly upon
his thin burning hand, or with fond solicitude her look would minutely
question the tokens she dared not believe she saw of illness and decay,
he would rouse himself to evade her suspicions, to dissipate her fears.

In order the more effectually to do this, he made a strong effort to
carry out a resolution he had for some time entertained, of taking her
himself to Venice, to introduce her to the several families of distinc-
tion, who had urged Portia and himself to return the visit paid to
Belmont on the occasion of the festival there. He was desirous that
she should form some valuable friendships, which might support her in
that sad period when he himself should be compelled to quit her.
He knew that she would always possess a father in Bellario ; but
he was anxious to smooth the way for that generous friend himself, by
establishing those relations, which he would best wish her to form in the
world.

He felt, too, that this would afford him an opportunity of accom-
plishing a project which had occurred to him in that self-communing
he had lately held with regard to chance and judgment. Impetuoub
ever, in his nature, his sensitive conscience had lat<.ly yielded to feverish
promptings and rash fancies, and he now conceived a scheme as eocon

"HEIE KEm£8S OF BELMONT. 71

Irio in its aim, as Aia ^rmor exercise of judgment had been hasty and
iefective.

He determined that while he was in Venice he would order to be
lonstructed three caskets, severally made of gold, silver, and lead ; and
that on the choice of these caskets should rest a decision of dearest
moment. In one of them he resolved to inclose the portrait of his
daughter, and whosoever of her suitors should choose the casket con-
taining her picture, should be her appointed husband. In devising this
mode of election, he seemed to give chance the full weight of the de-
sision ; but in the carrying out of his plan, it will hereafter be seen that
judgment on the part of him who should choose from the caskets was
involved in the election itself.

An early day was appointed for their departure from Belmont.
Portia, delighted to find her father in sufficient health and spirits for
such a visit, anticipated her introduction to Venice, with all the plea-
sure and eagerness usual to a young mind about to enter for the first
time upon so new and brilliant a scene. Their noble friends vied with
each other, who best should contribute to render the welcome of the
Count di Belmonte and his daughter gay and attractive ; and all ex-
hibited rival splendor and variety of amusement to entertain such
honored guests. Each day some new pastime was proposed ; each day
some diversity of sport, some ingenuity of device, some reunion of illus-
trious people, some gay masking, some ' daylight excursion, or nightly
revelry.

On one occasion, the grand canal presented a scene of unsurpassed
brilliancy and animation ; a boat-race was to take place, a distance was
appointed, prizes were instituted, and all Venice thronged to behold the
issue of the contention. Boats of all sizes and descriptions crowded
hither ; craft of every kind pushed and jostled ; gondolas glided to and
fro ; boatmen shouted and called ; gayly-dressed ladies and gallants
smiled and flirted; draperies of every vivid color depended from win-
dows; balconies were filled with gazers; steps and doorways, like the
entrances to beehives, supported their clusters, and swarmed with living
creatures.

74 PORTIA ;

The appointed boats that were to engage in the race, were of peou
liarlj small plain construction, well built for making their way oyer
the water, and each occupied by two men only, who impelled them in
the manner peculiar to the Venetian boatmen — ^pushing rather than
rowing.

These contesting boats were singularly in contrast with others of a
larger size, which were hung with silken festoons, and glittered with
gold and silver fringe, waved with crested plumes, and were richly
adorned and emblazoned with the arms of the several families to whom
they belonged. The rowers or gondoliers in each, varied in number, but
were dressed in livery of a superb though singular kind ; being of var»e-
gated and fantastically assorted colors ; oddly fancied stufifs, and forming
quaint devices ; sometimes a set of husbandmen with straw hats, flowers,
floating ribbons, and rustic attire ; sometimes a band of green foresters ;
and sometimes a row of nondescript beings with red arms, yellow bodies^
and blue legs.

In some of these decorated vessels (which generally contained the
patrons and abettors of the race) might be seen lounging at the prow,
extended on cushions, some representative of a noble house, who by his
negligent attitude, and aflectedly abstracted look, seemed willing to
afford others the gratification of contemplating his fine person and
studied dress. Many of these gallants indulged in only a furtive glance
at the beauty that surrounded them, and it seemed to be a sort of fashion
among them to affect being the admired instead of the admirers on this
occasion.

In one of these boats, there reclined a young Venetian, who was re-
markable, even among so much surrounding brightness, for the splendor
of his dress, the costliness of his boat-decorations, the whimsicality of
his men's attire, and the gravity with which he observed the affected
fashion alluded to just now. He maintained an air of profound abstrac-
tion, as if noways concerned in the busy scene around him, and looked
like a recumbent statue rather than a living man. As one in the pro-
cession of boats which glided idly backwards and forwards in mid-stream
before the race began, his vessel passed and repassed the galley in which

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 75

Ihe Count di Belmonte and his daughter sat with their friends to behold
the pageant ; and in the downcast eyes and listless figure of this young
gallant, Portia recognized the young gentleman pointed out by Nerissa
among the company at the Belmont festival as being so superlatively
handsome.

'^ His affectation would spoil him altogether, but that it seems merely
assumed in conformity with the prevailing mode here," thought she. '' I
will look at him once more, when his vessel comes round again."

She was so intently watching his return, that she paid little heed to
an old lady, a member of the house of Manfrini, who had taken a great
fancy to her, and who was endeavoring to entertain her with a descrip-
tion of the various persons she recognized. " Yonder is Signer Luigi and
his three fair daughters," said the old lady ; <' they are saluting that
grave gentleman in the sober suit, who is no less a personage than Signer
Antonio, whom my lord calls the * royal merchant.' He is as worthy as
he is wealthy, and does a world of good with his riches. They say he
is very generous to poor struggling tradesmen, and tender to unfortunate
debtors. Moreover he has good blood in his veins, and is of gentle birth.
There goes that pleasant scapegrace, Signer Gratiano ; and in the farther
boat is young Signer Lorenzo, with two of his friends. Yonder is the gal-
ley of his highness the prince of Morocco, who has lately arrived in this
city with his train, and who, I understand, is so courteous and pleasant-
spoken, that you forget he is black. But for my part, I can't fancy a
black man could be so agreeable as a white man ; I own I have preju-
dices, and that's one of mine, — I hate people of color. Talking of
prejudices, there's that detestable old Jew ! How dare he come among
us, I should like to know ? But that's one of the drawbacks on such an
occasion as this. It allows of so mixed an assemblage. A paltry traf-
ficker may elbow a magnifico, or a Jew usurer associate with us Chris-
tians ! They say the villanous dog has a pretty black-eyed daughter
whom he keeps shut up in his miserable den of a house, instead of bring-
ing the poor thing out to have a peep at such a sight as this ! Ah, here
comes young Lord Bassanio again ; he is a true gentleman ; and my lord
sayS; a brave soldier, and an excellent scholar, for all he is playing off

/6 PORTIA ;

Buoh ooxcombical airs to-daj. I am sorry to hear that he is mining hb
fortune with the extravagant course he is running. Why, the equipment
of that vessel, I should say, never cost him less than "

What the goi^sip-loving old lady might have gone on farther to say,
Portia knew not, for at this moment, her father leaned forward to accost
the young gentleman, who, starting from his abstracted condition, and
seeing who spoke to him, recognized the Count with a respectful earnest-
ness and a lively warmth of manner that offered a remarKable contrast
with his previous apathy. As the young man stood there with his hat
courteously removed, and his attitude full of grace and deference, reply-
ing to her father's salutation, Portia thought Nerissa's estimate was
certainly correct ; and when, a moment aft^r, the young Venetian hap-
pened to raise his eyes to hers, he found them fixed upon him with the
complacency inspired by such a thought. Several times again in the
course of the day he met that look ; and when, at the conclusion of the
race, he retired from the contention as one of the losers, he felt consoled
by the sympathetic glance of interest that once more flashed upon him
from those expressive eyes. A thought for the first time thrilled through
the heart of Bassanio, that had he not injured his fortune by a hitherto
idle and spendthrift course, he might have aspired to obtain a far more
glorious prize than the one awarded to the winning boat.

" What if I consult with my friend and kinsman, Antonio, upon the
means of repairing my fortunes ?" thought he. " Even were I to entreat
of his generosity to bestow upon me a fitting sum to equip me for enter-
ing the lists that I might contend for her favor — bis kindness hath that
extent, I am certain. I will think of it ; meantime, I vow to undertake
a pilgrimage to Belmont, at some not very distant day."

After a gay and pleasant interval spent at Venice, the father and
daughter prepared to return ; and Portia had the satisfaction of remark-
ing, that instead of the injurious effects which might perhaps have been
dreaded from such unusual excitement and exertion upon the weakened
frame of her father, the change seemed, on the contrary, to have been
beneficial. As they proceeded homewards in their coach, which met
them on the mainland, after ferrying across, the Count spoke playfully

THE HEfRKfiS OF BELMONT. 77

with hiB daughter of their late soones of gajetj ; and in his sprightly tone
and cheerful glance, Portia read more healthful symptoms than she had
noted for many a day.

" And of all those stores of splendor, of all those hright gayeties, I
have hrought you away no richer token than this slight bauhle," said he
placing a ruhy ring upon her finger, ^' hut it will serve to remind my
Portia of a pleasant holiday with her loving father ; and such thoughts
I know she prizes above jewels the most rare and precious that might be
found in all Venice."

His daughter kissed it fondly, as well as the hand that placed it on
hers, and said : — ^ It shall never quit my finger, dear father."

" Nay, you shall give it some day to him, who shall possess tiie hand
itself — to your husband, my Portia." And the father unconsciously
sighed.

Portia looked brightly in his face, and said, till she met with one
she could love and honor as she did her father and cousin, she cared not
to behold the man who was to claim the ring ; but that as it was not
likely she should ever encounter such a being, she might safely engage
to endow him with the ring, with herself, and with all she possessed
whenever so superlative a knight should appear.

Her father pressed the hand that lay in his, and looked proudly into
the beaming countenance that was raised to his own. He seemed about
to say something earnestly to her, when he perceived that the carriage
was approaching a group of ruins which lay on the confines of the Bel-
mont domain, and he leaned from the window to regard them. Portia,
observing the look, called softly to the attendants to pause ; and they
remained a few moments in contemplation of a scene as lovely as it was
replete with gentle memories for those two who now gazed upon its
beauty.

The spot was bathed in the gorgeous light of the setting sun. and the
stillness of the evening was so profound that the beating of their hearts
might almost have been heard, as the father and daughter sat there in
silent yet perfect sympathy.

Suddenly, a groan, as of one in pain, reached their ear. They listen*

78 portja;

ed. Another ; and then another. ^' Open the door, Stephano I" called
the voice of Portia to one of the attendants. '* Let me get oat of tlie
coach. I will see who this sufferer is, dear father, and return to you
immediately," added she ; and scarcely waiting for his reply, she bounded
from the carriage-step.

" Follow your young mistress, Stephano ; and you, Rico ;" said the
Count. '* Balthazar, and the rest, may remain here." And he watohed
the light figure of his child, as Portia, intent upon her charitable quest,
pressed eagerly forward in the direction whence the sound had seemed
to proceed.

At the foot of an aged tree that cast its broad shadows among the
broken columns and fractured arches of the ruins, which formed the
remains of some antique temple, and lay scattered in classic fragments
around, she found a man stretched upon the grass, apparently in the
last stage of exhaustion. He wore the coarse and travel-stained garb
of a pilgrim ; and by his side lay the staff, and hat sewn with cockle-
shells, that bespoke his being one of those pious wayfarers.

Portia addressed herself to the succor of this unfortunate ; bidding
one of the attendants, who had been sent after her, return quickly that
he might relieve her father's suspense, and bring back some of the re-
storatives that had been placed in the coach for the Count's use. She
then desired Stephano to place himself beside the apparently dying man,
and to raise his head upon his knee, while she herself fanned the suf-
ferer's brow, and chafed his horny sun-burnt hands with her own deli-
cate palms.

As she gazed upon the wan lips, closed eyes, and contracted brow of
this poor creature, she could not but call to mind the sufferings of her
own father, when he too had been an unhappy wanderer upon the earth;
and her charitable anxiety to restore him became even more strenuous.
Presently Rico arrived, bearing with him such remedies, as were not
long in restoring the pilgrim to himself; for it appeared that he had
fainted from want, fatigue, and exhaustion ; but was so far from being
in a dying state, that, with the aid of the two attendants, he was shortly
able to raise himself, and pour forth fervent thanks to the fair being who
had bestowed such timely succor.

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 79

^ Do not exhaust yourself with speaking, good father," said Portia^
^ but lean upon Rico and Stephano, and they will support you as far as
my coach, which will carry us to Belmont, where we shall find food and
repose."

In this manner they contrived to reach the spot where she had left
the Count ; who, assisting his daughter to place her charge within the
carriage, bade the attendants proceed at a pace accommodated to the
wanderer's aching limbs. In the course of the drive home, they learned
that he was a poor pilgrim, returning from the Holy Land ; that he had
been endeavoring to reach a neighboring monastery, which lay two miles
from Belmont, where he might obtain hospitality, but had travelled so
far in the heat during that and the preceding day, without having been
able to procure food, that he had at length sunk fainting up. n the grass
beneath the ruins, where he might have perished, but for Portia's sea-
sonable aid.

'^ And now, methinks, I could ask no better fate of Heaven, than to
spend the remainder of my days on that spot where my opening eyes
beheld that ministering angel of bounty ;" concluded the pilgrim. ^' In
such a hermitage, I might calmly and peacefully pass the remnant of
my life in heavenly contemplation, in lauding His mercy who sent her
thither, and in beseeching Him to grant her the happiness she so richly
merits.'*

^^ And you will let me plan this hermitage, and provide all the ar-
rangements of the cell, will you not, padre mio V* asked Portia, with all
the elation of a young heart enjoying the pleasure of a kindly deed, —
and which elation of spirit was peculiarly hers. ^' You will allow me to
install this holy man in the spot ho has himself chosen for his pious
retirement, will you not, my dear father ?"

'^ My Portia knows I can refuse her nothing.^" replied the Count ;
•< more especially when she seeks to secure for us so holy a neighly)r as
yourself, good father. '

Accordingly, when a day or two had elapsed, and the worthy pilgrim
had sufficiently recovered his strength, he removed to the hermit's cell,
which was provided for him amcng the ruins by the permission of the

80 PORTIA;

Count, and under the immediate superintendence of liis daughter ; and
so eagerly, so indefatigably, did Portia work at these arrangements, that
Nerissa bantered her upon all this zeal and ardor in behalf of a poor
old hermit and his cell, when she had not found time for one singlo
hour's gossip, to tell her about Venice, its revelries, its gallants, its
rival beauties, its braveries of attire, its thousand attractions, or the
millions of broken-hearted suitors, whom she must have left with no
other resource than to throw themselves headlong into the lagune.

But Portia's ardor was not of that kind which burns itself out in
the first glow of emotion, upon the performance of a good deed ; she
was as steady as she was warm-hearted, as firm and consistent as gentle
and benign. She not only established this venerable man in his chosen
retreat ; but she ceased not to cheer and delight its solitude by her oc-
casional visits and kindly presence, receiving in return pious instruction,
and interesting narratives of his former wandering life, in his own
person furnishing meek and consoling example of patience, faith, and
peace.

Soon, she had need indeed of consolation. One morning, she was
sitting by her father's side in the library, reading to him from one of
his favorite volumes, when she suddenly felt his hand, in which hero
was locked twitch convulsively, while his head, a moment afterwards,
dropped powerless upon the back of the chair in which he sat. She
leaned towards him — he was speechless ; but he gave her one of those
mute yet eloquent looks, in which the soul speaks through the eyes.

" My dear, dear father !" With her disengaged hand, she hastily
bared his throat, drew his hair back from his temples, and bathed them
with some essence which happened to stand upon the library-table
within reach

Her first anxiety was to still the fears that throbbed at her heart,
lest they might agitate her father, and render herself less capable of
commanding thought and energy for his assistance ; her next, that she
might be able to reach the bell to summon help, for she found she could
not withdraw her hand from her father's strict grasp, which seemed
rigid and involuntary.

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT . 81

After one oautioos effort, without being able to succeed in stretch-
ing her disengaged arm so far, she leaned towards his ear, and said in a
low voice, which she endeavored to render steady and calm : — " I am
about to call aloud, dear father ; do not be alarmed at the noise." And
then she called in a clear ringing tone : — ^' Balthazar ! Balthazar !"
But at this period of the morning, few of the servants were in that
portion of the house; most of them being busy in the offices, and
dispersed elsewhere, knowing that this was the hour when the Count
and his daughter usually sat quietly reading in the library, not requir-
ing their attendance.

All this passed through Portia's brain, in a strange reasoning i^iud
of calmness, as she stood there, vainly endeavoring to make her voice
bring other response than its own echoes. Between every call, she
held her breath, that she might catch the most distant sound of ap
proaching help ; but nothing could she hear, save these vain echoes
as they travelled fruitlessly through the long galleries, alternated by the
fearful pauses, and the beating of her own heart.

Her father seemed to comprehend her position, for he continued to
cast those expressive looks upon her ; though he could articulate no
sound, nor unclasp his fingers from the strict grasp they maintained!
^ound those of his daughter.

She gazed into those speaking eyes which seemed striving to convey;
some injunction to her, that she might try to read their meaning ; an($
she once saw him attempt to raise his other hand, as if in the languid
endeavor to make some signal, but she could not divine its import.

She whispered words of tenderness, beseeching him not to exhaust
his strength by such efforts, while she continued to bathe his temples^
and renewed her own attempts to summon help.

At length she heard a sound, at once discordant with her present
feelings, and welcome from its assurance of aid — Nerissa's merry
laugh ! Clearly and imperatively once again Portia called. Nerissa
hastened towards her lady's voice; but the mirthful look and tone
with which she entered, were stricken into dismay by what she
beheld.

82 PORTIA ;

Portia, by a steadfast effort, controlled her emotion, while she
desired Nerissa to speed for Balthazar and other attendants, to dis-
patch a messenger for medical assistance, and another to Padua to
•ummon Bellario to Belmont.

With the mastery of a well-disciplined mind, and the fortitude of a
firm, loving, unselfish heart, she compelled herself to issue these orders
in a calm, almost unfaltering tone, and to assist Balthazar in his at-
tempts to alleviate his master's condition. The faithful servitor
wished to persuade his master to be supported to his own apartment,
but at this proposal for removing him, the features of the Count
expressed so visible a repugnance, that Portia would not permit it to
be urged.

" If we could but get my lord to lie down, Madam," whisp ^red the
weeping Balthazar, " 1 feel sure that he would be easier. My lord the
Count had one of these seizures before — a night or two before you
went to Venice ; but he would not permit your ladyship to be informed
of it, because it went off by the dawn of morning, and he said it
was nothing, and you should not be made uneasy about such a
trifle."

Portia repressed the bitter words that arose to her lips, with which
she felt inclined to reprove Balthazar for having concealed from her
so vital a secret ; but she would not permit herself to give one thought
to regret, while she could devote them to the present succor of her
father. She knelt by his side, and murmured softly : — '^ Will my
father try if lying down may relieve him ?"

There was a look of acquiescence.

But when Balthazar and another attendant advanced to support
him away, the same expression of denial crossed his features at
before.

" Will you not let us place you in bed, dearest father ?"

The expression remained unchanged.

"We think if you were reclining, it would be a better position
than as you are now, dear father. Will you not try to lie down?"

His eyes resumed their eager look.

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 83

" I think my father objects to remove from this room, Balthazar,
and that he would lie down, if a couch were made for him here."
Portia fixed her eyes upon her father's, as she uttered these words^
and perceived unequivocal tokens that she had interpreted his wishes
aright.

The thought that the love between them enabled her thus to read
his unspoken desires, caused tears to spring from sudden joy, which had
been forbidden to the pangs of grief A sorrow may sometimes be
wrestled with, and denied the indulgence of expression, when a tender
transport over-masters resolution and will have vent in sobs.

As his daughter thus hung over him. yielding to the emotions of her
neart for the first time since his attack, her father seemed equally clearly
to read the interpretation of his Portia's feelings ; and thus did true
and perfect love reveal to each, the silent articulation of their mutual
thought.

The attendants speedily arranged one of the library couches for the
reception of the Count, and they laid him softly down in a recumbent
position ; his daughter still with her hand fast locked in his, which could
not unclench its grasp.

She bade them lower the dark green draperies of the nearest window
still more, over the blinds that excluded the glare of the noontide sun,
and desired Balthazar alone to remain in the room, as she hoped her
father might sleep.

Portia sat gazing upon that beloved face, listening to the low. irre-
gular breathings, and striving to hush the forebodings that appalled her
with the thought that she might behold him die there, before the phy-
sician and surgeon could arrive.

She struggled hard with the terrible fear, and dropped softly to her
knees by her father's side, that nhe might beseech strength and comfort
of her Father in Heaven. As she knelt meekly there, pouring out her
soul in prayer to the Almighty Parent in behalf of the earthly one, she
felt the hand that gtill held hers, slightly relax its grasp ; and a moment
afterwards, that deep, tender tone she knew so well, and which she had
almost despaired of ever hearing again, murmured the words : — '^ Mj
Portia I"

84 PORTIA ;

She arose hastily but quietly, and bent oyer the oouoh.

" Are we alone, my Portia ?" he said.

Portia bade Balthazar retire to the ante-room, but to wait within oall |
and not to fail letting her know when the medical men should arriye.

" We are alone now, dearest father," said she.

^^ I have no moment to lose," said the Count ^' This interval ol
speech and strength is mercifully lent to me, but it may not last long, and
I dread lest I once more behold myself reduced to my late torture of
impotency in speech and action, while so much remains to be said and
done for the welfare of my Portia."

She strove to tranquillize him ; and besought him not to let anxiety
for her, risk fresh exertion, which might occasion relapse.

He regarded not her words, but proceeded with an eagerness that
partook of his old spirit : — " Unlock yonder cabinet, my Portia, and
bring me the three caskets, with the fold of sealed parchment which you
will find beside them."

She obeyed his directions; fearful lest in endeavoring to dissuade
him from the exertion, opposition to his wishes might produce worse
effects than submission.

^' Tell me what words are engraven upon the lid of each of these
caskets, my Portia."

^' Upon the golden one is inscribed, ' Who chooseth me, shall gain
what many men desire ;' upon the silver one ' Who chooseth me, shall
get as much as he deserves ;' and upon the leaden one, ' Who chooseth
me, must give and hazard all he hath,' " replied she.

*'• By this parchment deed, which is a will I executed when in Venice,
my child, fueling even then convinced that I might shortly expect this
fatal summons — I have provided that on the choice of these caskets shall
depend your destiny in marriage. In one of these caskets is locked
your picture ; you will find the three corresponding keys of gold, silver
and lead, in the right-hand drawer of the cabinet. Of these keys take
charge yourself; you will find specified in the will, on what occasions
you are to deliver them up. My original aim in devising this scheme,
on which I have rested the decision of my Portia's fate, has been some

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 89

what modified ; but my wish is still that she promise to abide by the
terms of my will. Yes," continued he, as if to himself, and with a wild
earnestness that lighted his fast-dimming eyes, and lent a momentary
energy to his half-extinct voice, " I have learned to think that thus
chance and judgment may be made to aid each other, and wisely com-
bine to decide what else might never justly be awarded. For who shall
deserve her? Bellario truly said it" He paused an instant; but
meeting the eye of his Portia, and reading there her terror at his wan-
dering words, he strove to recall what he wished especially to say to her.
*• 'Tis for your sake, my Portia ; 'tis best thus, believe it. Will you give
me your promise ? Do you pledge your word to dispose of yourself
according to the plan set forth in my will?"

" I vow solemnly to obey your will in all things, my father ;" exclaimed
Portia.

A serene peace dwelt upon his features at her words, and he feebly
stretched his arms towards her. She flung herself upon the bed beside
him, and tenderly straining him in the embrace he sought, she heard
him murmur : " Now happily I go to await with her the future coming
of our child — our Portia."

When Balthazar came in with the doctors, they found the father and
daughter clasped thus in each other's arms ; both profoundly still. But
the daughter's was the stillness of a death-like swoon — the father's, that
of death itself 1

When Portia recovered from the fainting-fit in which her senses lay
steeped, during so lengthened a period that it alarmed Nerissa for her
life, the first object that met her eyes was Bellario. That dear and
tender friend, that devoted cousin, was there watching over her ; to hail
the first look of returning consciousness ; to assist in reconciling her to
meet the light of existence, now so shorn of its beams for that loving
daughter. He was there to temper the first shock which the restored
sense of her loss would surely bring ; he was close beside her, to lighten
her grief by sharing it, to console her by his sympathy, to strengthen her
by his help, and to afford her comfort and hope by his love, his tender
ness, his true affection.

56 poRTU ;

Between them there had erer been perfect understanding and inti*
mate knowledge ; and she had scarcely lost a truer father, than the one
she possessed in Bellario.

In his society she learned to encounter the blow which had befallen
her, to endure the daily sense of her bereavement, and, in time, to con-
vert its remembrance into a source of hallowed memories rather than of
bitter regrets. For, once again, did this devoted friend make his other
duties subservient to the exigencies of hi.s Portia's welfare ; once again,
did he dedicate his time and thoughts to Belmont and to her ; once again
did he constitute himself a father to this father-left young creature.
During the whole time of her mourning, he never quitted her ; conse-
crating himself entirely to the task of affording comfort and consolation
by his presence, and of cheering and strengthening her in that period of
seclusion and retirement.

But when more than a twelvemonth had elapsed, and he had beheld
sorrow succeed to despondency, resignation to sorrow, and cheerful hope
of one day rejoining her parents to resignation, he felt that she ought
no longer to indulge in so strict a privacy ; but that the time had now
arrived for the fulfilment of her father's will.

The terms of this will, as regarded the heiress of Belmont, were gen
erally known ; and it was only in accordance with the respect due to the
period of her mourning, which she desired to pass in complete seclusion,
that the host of suitors, attracted by the hope of winning so rich a prise,
had hitherto refrained from entering the lists, and seeking to ascertain
their fortune by the decision of the fateful caskets. The reputation of
her wealth and beauty had extended far and wide ; and Bellario knew
that it sufficed but to proclaim the period of Portia's season of mourning
and retirement to be at an end, in order that suitors without number
would flock to the gates of Belmont. He was well aware of her deter-
mination to abide scrupulously by the dictates of her father's will ; and
however he might secretly doubt the merits of the prescribed plan, which
assigned so important a point of decision to a trial for the most part of
chance, he respected the daughter's pious obedience too much, to utter •
single word subversive of her resolution.

THE HEIRESS OF BELMONT. 87

When therefore Bellario announced to her that he thought it now
behooved her to deny herself a longer indulgence in solitude, and to
throw open the gates of Belmont for the advent of visitors, she, with her
usual good sense and dignity, sought not to delay an inevitable conse-
quence ; but told him that however she might have of herself desired to
live still to themselves, seeking no other companionship, no better friend-
ship, no dearer love, she yet perceived the wisdom of his counsel, and
was prepared to conform to his suggestion.

" And that you may now appear in your true and exclusive right as
mistress of Belmont, my Portia " said he, *• I shall now withdraw myself
to my quiet bachelor house at Padua, and leave you to receive these
visitors, unsupported, save by your o,wn dignity and noble discretion."
Then seeing her about to remonstrate at losing him just when his pre-
sence was most desired, he went on to say : — " It will be wiser for you to
accustom yourself henceforth to rely firmly upon your own conduct, my
Portia, and to relinquish the society of one, who, though most dear to
you, I know, is yet one to whom you have been habituated to look for
counsel and assistance. For these you may still apply, by letter ; we
have long had the custom of corresponding with each other. Fail not
therefore to inform me of yourself constantly, and above all, to send for
my help whenever it may ftvail you in aught of exigence or emergency ;
but in conduct, in action, learn to depend upon yourself, and determine
to hazard rather some mistake, so that you may rely upon your own
understanding, your own powers. You know, my Portia, that I have
never flattered you ; I have even preferred over-sedulous watching and
reforming your errors, to remarking upon your merits. But I have
discerned those merits none tne less clearly from my having noted them
silently instead of lauding them ; and it is now an occasion when I may
honestly speak of their existence, and tell you that I think their nature
and number are such, that they serve to make you one of the noblest and
worthiest of your sex. You have reached an age when a woman is at
her brightest, her most attractive period of life. You have youth,
beauty, wealth, virtue, native intellect, a cultivated understanding, and
a generous, innocent, happy heart. Your attractions, affluence, and

88 PORTU ;

rank, will command attention ; your courtesy and dignity will insar«
respect ; your talents and virtues will win esteem and attachment ; and
your loving nature will be a source of happiness to yourself and others.
Your generosity and beneficence will prevent your riches from exciting
envy ; and it will be only those men who cannot bear that woman should
be the bestowing party, who will be mean enough to impute pride to one
who has so much in her gift yet who bestows it so liberally. Your
intellectual accomplishments will draw the accusation of pedantry and
unfeminine pre-eminence, from the ignorant and consciously-inferior alone,
among men ; when it is seen how modestly and wisely you exercise
your faculties. It is merely because I know that the most perfect of
human beings never yet entirely escaped censure, that I point out whence
it may reach you ; but with the good, the gifted, the refined and exact
in judgment, Portia of Belmont must ever be loved and admired as the
exemplar of all that is worthiest in woman Feeling and knowing this,
as I do, your faithful friend and cousin commits you unfearing to your
own guidance, to your own undirected course, secure that it will be one
of unblemished beauty, of distinguished excellence. God bless and
protect you, my dearest Portia ; omit not to write of all you think, say,
or do, to your own true Bellario."

Thus proudljf confiding, thus tenderly yet wisely, did Bellario quit
her ; and it required all Portia^s judgment and prudence, to bid her ac-
quiesce in a measure which deprived her of so beloved a friend — who to
his self-denying discretion joined so fond a partiality, so perfect and
devoted an attachment

In less than a week after his departure, Belmont was once more
thronged with visitors. Not only the nobles and magnificos of Venice,
with their families, crowded to offer their congratulations to their fair
friend, the heiress of Belmont ; but suitors of every country, renowned
in fame, and illustrious in birth, poured from all quarters, and sought
the adventure of the caskets, contesting for the glorious prize therein al
issue.

As the successive competitors tried their fate, and withdrew, one
after the other equally unprosperous in their selection, Portia half an-

THE HEIRESS OF BELMOIH*. 89

oonsoioosly indulged a sanguine thought that the right choice might
perhaps be reserved by destiny for one whom she could prefer, and shi
each day learned less and less to dread the decision, seeing it so often
deferred. But she would now and then playfully complain to Nerissa
of the waywardness of her fate, which placed her disposal at the mercy
of a lottery. Nerissa would laughingly attempt to console her by assu*
ranees that she would make her own marriage depend on the same
chance.

'' I know," said she, ^^ that whenever I may think of a husband, I
shall make a quick choice ; I'm very sure I shan't be long making up
my mind whether I could like a man well enough to take him for good
and all ; and, who knows ? perhaps when the right suitor to your lady-
ship shall select the right casket, the right lover for me may present
himself at the right same moment, and so the rites of marriage may
give both the gallants a right over us at once from that day forward,
and every thing may end rightly and happily after all."

Sometimes, Nerissa would think of that young lord whom she had
thought so handsome, so graceful, and so seeming-worthy of her lady at
the Belmont festival ; and allowed herself to indulge a secret hope that
he might some day or other present himself at Belmont among other
suitors, with better success than they.

And in fact, he, like every one else, had heard of the heiress of Bel-
mont ; of the adventure of the caskets, and of how it was to decide of her
disposal in marriage. His former thought recurred, which had lain
dormant during the period of her mourning and seclusion ; and he now
resolved that he would seek advice and assistance of his friend Antonio,
and would try his fate at Belmont, where he would commence his suit
to Portia by a frank disclosure of the state of his ruined fortunes, and
his desire to owe all things to her bounty and her love— could he once
obtain confirmation of his hope that he was not wholly indifferent to her,

Bassanio's spendthrift course had been rather the result of youth,
and exuberance of spirits, than arisen from a native tendency to foppery
and extravagance. He was possessed of high qualities, as well as of a
handsome person. His love for his friend Antonio was warm, sincere^

9U PORTIA ;

And fervent ; and the sense he entertained of the many benefits he had
received at the hands of this munificent kinsman, which in a baser na
ture might have degenerated into humiliating consciousness and conse-
quent dislike, in Bassanio's took the shape of gratitude, respect, and
indestructible attachment. He had also an exalted sense of honor, a
refined appreciation of goodness and beauty, and entertained an utter
scorn of falsehood in word or deed.

But to return to Belmont — to Portia — to Nerissa.

One day, when there had been as usual a numerous arrival of suitors
during the preceding week, and there were then abiding in the house no
fewer than six gentlemen. — a Neapolitan prince, a County Palatine, a
French lord, an English baron, a Scotch earl, and a* German duke's
nephew, — all attracted hither by the fame of the rich heiress, Portia and
Nerissa sat at their embroidery frame in the library. Portia loved this
room for the sake of her father, whom she had here beheld for the last
time, and for the sake of Bellario, with whom she had here spent some
of the happiest hours of her existence. She made it her own peculiar
sitting-room, therefore ; and here she sat on the morning in question,
chatting gayly with Nerissa in their usual free, pleasant, light-hearted
manner.

And so, in the pretended pouting of a favorite of fortune, Portia

said : — ^'' By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is atveary of this great
ffforld."

What Nerissa answered, we all know — or ought to know. Hei
words are to be found in the second scene of a certain play ; where.
** my master desires to speak with you."

flUUL

THE THAJ07S DAUGHTER

TALE EL

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

*I would not have luch a haart in my bosom, for the dignity of the whole body."

Macbeth.

The night-wind howled and swept over the heathy plains that sur-
rounded the castle. It drove on shriekingly ; then paused ; and then
the sharp lashings of the ruin-storm pelted onward before its fierce will.
The distant hills were hung with mist ; and when the flashes of light-
ning darted a momentary glare upon all around, they served but to
illumine the dense dank veil that shrouded castle, hill, and valley.

Dismally and wailingly the gust panted on, lamenting ; and but held
in its mighty breath to take fresh force for the next burst of rage.
Moaning and plaintive, it lulled and halted ; then screaming and hurling
wildly on, it poured forth its fury, aloud, abroad, aloft, scattering clouds
and mists, wrenching trees from their rooted firmness, dashing the
waters of stream, lake, and torrent, and filling the sky with uproar and
tempest.

Round the walls and battlements of the castle it beat, and tore, and
raved ; the rain whirled its sheeted drifts against the stony security, as
if mad with impotent endeavours to penetrate the building, and whelm
all beneath its washing inundation ; the lightning darted fiery threats
amid turret and tower, in vivid, sudden, quick-succeeding flashes ; while
fche deep-rolling thunder mingled its awful menaces with the howls and

94 THE thane's DAITGHTER.

complainings of the wind. The wrath of nature seemed striving to find
Toice in the tumult of the vengeful elements ; as these storm-ministeri
still beat, and tore, and raved round the castle walls.

For within these walls — in one of the upper chambers of the castle
— lay one in the pangs of travail ; and that night a child was born into
the world, destined to read a world-wide lesson, how unhallowed desires
and towering ambition can deface the image of virtue in a human heart,
and teach it to spurn and outrage the dictates of nature herself

The lights in the chamber were screened and dimmed, that they
might not disturb the sufferer. The voices of the attendant women
were suppressed, as they muttered among themselves ; and their step
was cautious, as they occasionally moved about in obedience to the be-
hests of an aged woman, who seemed to preside over the sick-room,
officiating as midwife, and directing all things according as her skill
prompted, to alleviate her lady's sufferings. Nought was heard in the
chamber but the lowered voices of the attendants ; the slight clicking of
the wood-embers that lay between the pair of iron dogs upon the hearth ;
a few stifled moans from the bed of pain ; a word or two in reply, of sup-
port and comfort from the aged nurse-ministrant ; while amidst all these
hushed sounds within, mingled the bowlings of the storm from without,
which still beat, and tore, and raved round the castle walls.

^' It is a wild night, Bethoo, is it not ?" murmured the sick lady to
her faithful nurse.

" It is, my lady," replied old Bethoc. " But you will think the rayg
of the blessed sun are shining, when you behold the light of your child's
face. Bear ye bravely, my lady, and think of the morning that will
dawn upon you then, to console you for the sore dark night ye're pass-
ing through."

In the hall below there is a meal toward. Tables are spreading' for
a second supper ; for the lord of the castle cannot retire to rest while
his lady lies in perilous strait ; and as it is many hours since the even-
ing-meal, he orders another, as much that he may have some object
which may serve to make the time seem to lag less heavily, as because he

THE thane's daughter. 9fi

feels aught of hanger or thirst. The seeing his attendants bustle to and
fro in active preparation, is something too, in that season of suspense ;
and the old thane sits half watching them, half gazing into the cheerful
fire that roars upon the huge hearth, as his hand rests upon the neck of
one of a leash of tall deer-hounds that stand at his knee, while its com-
panions lie at his feet, and regard their master's face with that sagacious
look of sympathy with his anxious expression of countenance, which
seems akin to rational intelligence.

But through all the setting of tables, and ranging of stools and
benches, and jingling of cans, and bringing in of dishes, and wine-flasks
and ale-flaggons ; and through all the hurry of serving-men, and shuffling
of feet, and calling of voices, and opening and shutting of doors — through
all, and above all, is heard the howling of the storm from without, that
still beats, and tears, and raves round the castle walls.

" Go, one of you, and enquire how my lady doth now," said the thane ;
'* bid Bethoc send me word how she fares ; and not to fail to let me
have good news as soon as may be — of a boy, if it please Heaven ; — for
her sake !"

There was a parley among the at tendants ; a pause, a consultation,
as if hesitating who should fulfil the bidding of their master, which
spoke a tale of neglectful and too-easy rule, on his part, with correspon-
dent carelessness, and tardiness of obedience on theirs.

" Let Ivan go — ^"

*• No, no, let Fergus go — ^"

^ Indeed, I am not going, just as the meat is serving in ; send young
Gulen ; let Culen go. Here, Culen, my lad, take a torch, and away with
you to my lady's chamber, and bring my lord word how it fares with
her now. If it be your luck to bring back tidings of an heir, who
knows but the news may be worth promotion to thee ; for my lord's
coffers are too ill provided, I fear, to let him give thee any thing else.
Had there been likelihood of a broad piece, now, I might have gone my-
self"

These words were spoken aside, among the serving-men ; with but
half-suppressed chuckling, for the good old thane's well-known slendei

96 THE thane's daughter.

means, as well as easy disposition, oansed him to be held in slight respeet
by his retainers, whose hireling natures would have paid more servile
deference to affluent tyranny.

Ceaseless wars, with their concomitant evils of ruinous exactions,
scanty tillage, unproductive harvests, and the impossibility of domestic
improvement, had entirely drained this formerly-wealthy thane's re-
sources ; and he was now an impoverished old man, with little beside
his patrimonial castle and title, to prevent him from being nominally, as
well as actually, a beggar.

The little page, Oulen, left the hall as he was bid ; bearing with him
a torch to guide him through the long dark galleries and corridors, and
winding stairs, and many chambers., which he had to traverse ere he
could reach the one where his lady-mistress lay. The lad screened the
light he bore, as well as he could, from the strong draughts of air that
came streaming through the stone passages, and met him at the opening
of doors, and threatened to extinguish the flame of his torch. His heart
sank as he thought of being left in darkness all alone in those dreary
vaulted spaces, and the boy muttered a pater-noster, as he listened to
the roaring of the wind, and fixed his eyes steadily upon the flickering
light, scarcely daring to glance round, lest he might see something ter-
rible in the gloom.

" Pshaw, what should I be afraid of?" thought he. "la soldier (as
I hope to be some day), and afraid ! Still, it is well that good Grym
taught me that prayer, which he learned when he used to serve mass
when he was himself a little chap, over there at the abbey. * Fiat vo-
luntas tita^ I think it must be because I'm sent of this errand to the
dark lady at night ; for I ain't at all afraid of her by day-time, any more
than I am of these long galleries, then. It's a terrible night ! The wind
screams like an owlet ! ^JJimitte nobis debito nostra? It's strange that
we should call my lady ^ the dark lady,' and not by her name. I'll think
to ask Grym about that, bytheby. I wonder whether the baby is bom f"

At this instant, a peal of thunder so loud and so immediate that it
seemed to shake the sturdy walls of the castle, and cause them to vi-
brate to their very foundation, appalled the heart of the page, Gnlen

TiiE thane's daughter. 97

and he sank lavoluntarilj to his knee, with a trembling " Libera nos a
malo r Then, during the silence that ensned, the childish voice mignt
be heard steadily and devoutly repeating the beautiful prayer to our
Almighty Father. Strengthened and encouraged, the boy arose, and
once more proceeded on his way to the chamber of his mistress ; where
he knocked at the door, and delivered his message to one of the attend-
ant women, who was sent out to him by old Bethoo, the nurse.

The waiting-woman stepped forth into the ante-room where the
page stood, and drawing the door close behind her, she whispered to
him that he might tell his lord that my lady was better, and that a little
daughter was born.

" Bethoc has not dared to tell my lady yet, that the child is a girl,"
added the waiting-woman ; " we all know she will be so grieved with the
news. She set her heart upon a son ; and if what the dark lady sets
her heart upon, come not about, why then "

She paused ; the page nodded as if he understood what she would
say of the violence of their lady's disappointment, and the two attend-
ants parted ; the one to bear the news back to his master, the other to
return to the siok-room.

On her couch lay the dark lady. Her eyes were closed — but she did
not sleep. The lids veiled them, and the long jet lashes lay upon the mar-
ble cheek ; but beneath the lids the restless eye-balls quivered, and the
fringed lashes were not still* while the pale lips trembled and twitched
with emotion that was strong and wakeful.

The new-born babe was on the knee of one of the attendants, close
by the fire, where it lay basking and burgeoning, and stretching its
limbs towards the welcome glow, like a butterfly fresh-emerged from its
chrysalis enfoldings, sunning its wings in the genial warmth of noon.

The waiting-women crept quietly to and fro ; ever and anon coming
to kneel softly down, and bend over the newly-born little one, to scan
its infant features, and press its fairy feet to their lips, and let it curl
its miniature fingers round one of theirs, in caressing womanly wont.

Bethoc hovered near her mistress, mutely sympathising with the

98 THE thane's daughter.

thoughts which she knew agitated her heart, and caused those sleeplesf
oycs to quiver and tremhle.

The dark eyes open, and meet those of the aged nurse. They are
eager, and fraught with solicitude and enquiry of somewhat the lips dare
Xiot frame into a question.

The nurse, to evade seeming to comprehend what she understands
but too well, affects to be busied with the pillows, and to imagine that
their better arrangement is the object of the lady's wish.

A little cry reaches the bed. The eyes flash open once again, in
still more peremptory interrogation ; and the dark lady fixing them on
Bethoc with a stern resolution not to be withstood, mutters : — ^" You
know what I would ask !"

Bethoc answered : — '* I will bring the bajbe, and lay her to your
breast, my lady."

" Dare not to say ^ Iier V "

^ Madam, the bairn's just a lassie ; I'd ha' told ye of a man-child, if
I could."

A groan burst from the lips of the dark lady ; and the teeth were
ground, with what sounded a curse I

The lady Gruoch, descended of one of the noblest Scottish houses,
by orphanhood in her minority, became a ward of the crown ; which at
that early period in Scotland, had feudal power over the lands and pos-
sessions of all minors thus left, together with the disposal of their hand
in marriage. Royal expediency saw fit to bestow her as a wife upon
Kenneth, thane of Moray ; who, old enough to be her father, had yet
not sufficient experience to be able to win the love of the young beauty
who had thus become bound to him for life. Not only had the lady no
inclination for a man so much her senior, whom she had scarcely ever
seen, ere she became indissolubly united to him ; but their dispositions,
tampers, opinions, tastes, were so utterly at variance, that it was not to
be expected that the original indifference of the bride would ever warm
into the affection of a wife — all that could be hoped was, that it might
not be converted into repugnance by a constant association with one 00
entirely opposed to her in thought, word, and deed.

THE thane's DAUGHTEA. d9

But though the thane of Moray was little calculated to inspire love
in her whom he had married, he was almost as little formed to excite so
active a feeling as dislike, for he was hland, kind, and gentle to a fault
— at least in those times, when hardihood, courage, fortitude, activity,
and the austerer virtues more advantageously adorned a man than such
qualities as distinguished the mild and benevolent Kenneth.

It was the very excess of these amiable qualities in her lord, which
were destructive to the growth of a warmer liking for him in the heart
of the lady Gruoch, and were so peculiarly opposed to her ow n character.
His bland manners she thought misplaced in a man whose station made
him the chieftain of a band of men who should be trained ^o arms and
nrarlike deeds, and disciplined to strict obedience. His kindness and
benevolence she thought weakness ; his love of quiet and peaceful occu-
pations, which led him to submit to all exactions rather than engage in
contention with his neighbours, or in warfare for his sovereign, unless
peremptorily summoned to the field, she looked upon as unmanly lack
of spirit, and want of honourable ambition ; his serene temper was a sore
trial to her's ; and his gentleness a perpetual thorn in her peace.

For her own heart beat high and proud, as she thought of the re
nown to be won in the tented field, — of the added glories that might be
set beside those descended to her and her husband from a noble race of
ancestors, — of the honors that might heighten those already the inherit-
ance of their respective houses. Her own pride of blood, the daring
aspiration of her nature, caused her to scorn such qualities as she dis-
covered in her husband, as so many obstacles in the way of her ambition.
When first she had married, the high rank of her destined husband, the
knowledge that even royal blood ran in his veins, had gone far to recon-
cile her to the difference of years that existed between them ; for she
hoped to find consolation in the grandeur and power of rank and wealth,
for the want of that happiness which she expected not, to derive from
love. But she soon discovered that the thane's rank and descent were
counterbalanced by a tranquil nature that cared not to purchase dignity
and elevation at the price of happiness and peace; that his claims
would never be supported, if they could only be maintained by strife

100 THE thane's daughter.

and bloodshed ; that his possessions were fast dwindling beneath the
demands of an exacting and despotic monarchy, which extorted fines
and levied contributions from such of its subjects as preferred the sacn
fioe of their revenues to seditious resistance, and a settlement of mutual
claims in the open field ; and that, in short, her ambition had as little
prospect of satisfaction from wedlock, as her affections.

After the first disappointment of her hopes, they had suddenly re-
vived at the prospect of a son. A year after her marriage, she had
given birth to a boy, and in this son she soon learned to centre all
those yearnings of ambition, those daring aspirations which she had
just taught herself to fear must be for ever crushed.

But scarcely had she permitted herself to indulge this fond renewal
of hope, before it was suddenly withdrawn. The child lived but a few
months, and in its little grave was buried all that remained of cheer to
its mother. It was soon after the death of this child, that the title by
which the lady Gruoch was best known, became confirmed in use among
the retainers of her husband's household. When the thane had first
brought her a bride to his castle, the raven hue of her hair, the intense
depth of her beautiful eyes, the jet of those pencilled brows, and the
long black silken lashes that fringed the lids, and rested upon the pale
cheek, altogether formed so strikingly-singular a contrast with the ge-
nerality of the fair-haired beauties who are the dwellers in that North-
ern land, that she became, by common consent, known as the dark lady
of Moray. And after the loss of her son, the habitual gloom that
settled upon her brow, the concentrated mood in which she was wont to
nurse her disappointed fancy, the lofty pride that held her reserved and
aloof in bearing, with the increased pallor of her complexion, which
heightened the effect of her raven tresses, and of those deep, mysterious,
self-communing eyes, combined to render the title more and more appro*
priate ; and from that time forth she was always named " the dark lady."

Years of brooding discontent had lapsed wearily away, when the
unexpected prospect of again becoming a mother, had re-awakened in
the dark lady the hope of beholding a son. How that hope was onoc
more blighted, has been seen.

THE THANE'S DAUGHTER. lOi

The storm had subsided ; and for many hours the sky had been
clear and bright. It was high morning. The dark lady had been
placed by her attendants in a half-recumbent position, within the influ-
ence of the cheerful rays that streamed in at the chamber-window ;
and thus propped and supported by cushions, with her back to the light,
and leaning one cheek on her hand, she sat abstracted and silent, wait-
ing the approach of her husband, who had sent word that he was coming
to thank and bless her for the welcome gift with which she had pre-
sented him.

The old thane came ; and bending over her in a transport of honest
tenderness, he kissed her forehead, and whispered his joy to see her
safe, his proud delight at the thought of the child she had brought him
— ^his thanks — his happiness.

The dark lady turned those large full eyes upon him, with a look of
wonder.

" Do you know it is a girl ?" she asked.

" Surely ;" replied her husband. " Dear little creature, she is sent
by Heaven to make my age happy, and to comfort her mother when she
has laid her old Kenneth in the grave. You might perhaps have had a
partner better suited to you than myself, dear wife," added the thane,
" but you could hardly have had one who loved you more fondly ; when
you lose your old husband, you will miss him more than you perhaps
think, and I am glad to know you will have this little one to love you
in my stead."

" I shall not survive you," said the dark lady.

" Nay, now you are playing the young wife, indeed ; and would fain
make me believe that you have no thought of some day or other playing
the gay widow," said the thane merrily.

" I shall never be one," replied the dark lady.

Her husband did not understand her ; and, as was usual with him,
in her cold abstracted moods, made no attempt to fathom her reserve.
Besides, at this moment, his attention was wholly engrossed with his
baby daughter, who was placed in his arms by Bethoc, the faithful old
nurse.

102 THE thane's daughter.

The thane pressed the little creature to his bosom ; he looked inti
•the sleeping face, and listened to the soft even breathings, and a world
of emotions filled his heart at the thought of this new morsel of vitality,
this fresh-comer into existence, this atom on the thresholds of the past
and present, this strange bit of opening life, this mystery of commence-
ment, this tender blossom, this human bud awaiting with yet half-
closed petals its future development ; and the father raised his eyes
reverently to the Creator, from whose presence the newly-born one
seemed but recently come, and prayed that maturity might not sully the
pristine whiteness of its innocence.

The rays of the morning sun fell full upon his silver hairs, and
glistened in his tearful eyes, as the venerable thane uttered a de-
vout thanksgiving for the child that had been vouchsafed to his old
age.

The dark lady sat coldly gazing on this picture of patriarchal grati-
tude; and when the words of thanksgiving breathed from her hus-
band's lips, the same look of scornful wonder dwelt in her eyes as
before.

'^ But surely the bairn's a comfort to you, madam ;" said old
BetLoo to her mistress, when ^ the dark lady was once more alone
with her women. " Ye would not wish the babe unborn, would ye ?"

" As well unborn, as born a girl ;" she bitterly replied. " This is
not the child I hoped ! This is not the son who should have inherited
his mother's spirit — have carried her heart into the field — have enacted
with his brave arm what her soul inspired — have reaped glory and
renown — have contended for, and won back, the rightful possessions
and honors of two noble houses, lapsed into penury and decay through
slothful ease, and tame submission. 0 where is the son might have
done this !"

" Patience, patience, lady ; who knows but the brave boy may still
be yours ? Who knows what another year may bring ?" said the old
nurse.

The dark lady's eyes flashed disdainfully.

THE thane's daughter, 103

^' Did you note that snow-white head ? Is that a man to be again
a father, think you? One child accorded to doting age such aa
that, was a boon past expectance of Heaven's bounty ; but that one
child being a puny girl, Heaven's gift is scarce better than an af-
fliction."

"Talk not so wildly, madam;" said the aged Bethoc. "Ye can
hardly have savoured true affliction, to speak of it in the same breath
with a new-born innocent like this," said she, placing the little one in
the arms of its mother, that in and with the act of bestowing nourish-
ment from her own bosom, gentler thoughts might flow towards tho
guiltless offender. " And as for its being * a puny girl,' a bonnier babe,
or one more like to thrive, it has never been my fortune to behold. Ye
might have complained, indeed, had it been your fate, my lady, to have
been brought to bed of some monster, such as I have heard of before
now. I remember once, in the time of the last great dearth, there was
a gentlewoman gave birth to a poor unfortunate, with neither hands
nor feet, and it was blind, deaf, and dumb ; you might have talked of
affliction, then, indeed ; or have looked upon Heaven's gift as a grief,
had you brought forth the deformity I heard tell of, that was born tp«
an unhappy woman in Angus. It was a creature frightful to behold,
with a head like that of a swine, a pigeon-breast, and distorted back
and shoulders ; it was web-footed like a goose, and its legs were curved
and set with bristles, so that it looked like an animal, strange and
ghastly, and horribly ill-favored. And then, too, there was that
wretched lady in Oalloway, who bore a double-child, with four arms>
and two heads ; and which as it grew up, fought and brawled with*
its own other self, in a manner terrible to the beholders. For it pos^-
sessed in its double body, two separate sets of wills and inclinations;
that were ever at variance among themselves, so that the chiding and
quarrelling was incessant and grievous. As when one body a-hungered
the other would gladly fast ; and when one longed for sleep, the other
was wakeful and desirous of sport; and these warring desires so
plagued and tormented them, that the four arms would be rending and
tearing in piteous fashion with their nails. But the worst was, when

104 THE thane's DAUGHTKU.

sickness at length attacked one of these miserable bodies, so thai i(
dwindled and pined, and gradually languished till it died ; and the other
twin-body, unable to support the nausea of its kindred corruption, sick
cned and died also."

Thus ran on the aged crone with her nurse's tales, in hope to be-
guile her lady ; and lead her to thinl more well-favoredly of the babe,
whose only blemish was her being a cu^ighter, by these legends of pro-
digious birth, monstrosity and marvel.

» But the dark lady heeded not her nurse's loquacity. She was
watching the infant at her breast ; and as it drew its life-sustaining
streams thence, she half grudged to bestow them on this girl, this non-
boy, this embodied disappointment, this mortification, this perplexity,
this child that was no child, — to her.

Her imagination pictured to her the pride and joy with which she
should have beheld a son and heir drawing from her bosom sustenance
and strength to grow into youth and manhood by her side ; a son
into whom she might infuse her ambitious spirit, into whose mind
she might instil her aspiring hopes, whom she might nurture in
high enthusiasm, and train to courageous deeds, and whom she
might one day see fulfil and attain in person all her long-hoarded
desires.

The indulgence of her fancy in what might have been, served to
convert the reality before her into a torture instead of a blessing ; and
so the mother looked almost with aversion upon her own infant.
Mother's regards were well-nigh scowls ; mother's smiles were all
but disdain, not pitiful tenderness ; mother's breast heaved repiningly
in lieu of yielding its balmy treasures lavishly and lovingly ; and
thus the babe gazed wondering up into those dark unfathomable eyes
with naught of maternity in their irresponsive depths ; and thus the
babe sucked bitterness, perverted feeling, unholy regret, and vain aspinM
tion, with every milky draught imbibed.

But whatever of baneful influence and mysterious harm to thai
infant soul might mingle with the sources of nourishment thus eon

THE thane's daughter. 105

veyed, the little body waxed strong and healthful ; its limbs gained
firmness and yigor ; it daily increased in force, activity and intelli-
gence ; and as the mother beheld its thriving beauty, she thought how
well that beauty might have become a boy. As she viewed the health-
ful frame, and felt the energy and power which strained every muscle,
and struggled in every movement of the robust little being that kicked
and stretched, and strove, and fought within her arms, the dark lady
sighed to think such a frame and such powers were wasted on a girl.
The canker of fruitless repining was fast destroying the parent-blossom,
even while watching the promising growth of her fair opening bud ;
and while the babe increased and strengthened, the mother drooped and
decayed. She had truly felt, that the disappointment she had sus-
tained was her death-blow ; and, as she had predicted to her old hus-
band, she was destined not to survive it, or to outlive him.

She sat day after day, and week after week, never leaving her
chamber, or seeming to take interest in a single object animate or inani-
mate. She remained, for the most part, in one listless attitude ; rarely
speaking, and scarcely looking at anything, or regarding any person.
She seemed shrouded in discontent, yet uttering no syllable of com-
plaint. She claimed no sympathy, and sought no relief to the monotony
of inward despondency, but folded herself within an impenetrable veil
of outward apathy, and heavy dull immobility. Ever proud and re-
served, she seemed now doubly unapproachable, muffled and shut in
with her mute regrets.

At first, her husband had endeavoured to withdraw her from her
solitude, and to win her from the stupor of disappointment which held
her sitting there day after day, in the unmoved position which was
fast becoming habitual ; but his efforts were repulsed with indiffer-
ence, coldness, and silence. The old thane, with his wonted passive-
ness, soon ceased to oppose her apparent disinclination to leave her
chamber ; and it was not long ere he learned to acquiesce altogether
in her seeming preference for seclusion, by leaving her to herself.

Her increasing silence and reserve made even her women refrain
from addressing her ; they acquired the habit of creeping to and fro

1 06 THE thane's daughter.

noiselessly while in her immediate presence, and receiving their orden
exclusively from Bethoc, who supplied the place of her mistress bj
thinking for her, speaking for her, superintending the welfare of the in"
fant, and giving the necessary directions to the female attendants.

And there, week after week, and month after month, sat the dark
lady, like a living statue, mute and immutable ; the only perceptible
alteration in her attitude, being a gradual sinking and collapsing of the
frame, which brought her low, bent, and drooping, like a withered plant.
Each day, and from day to day, the change could scarcely be traced ;
but when she first assumed that seat, and that fixed position, her body
was erect, haughty, energetic, and defiant ; — before a twelvemonth had
elapsed, the muscles were flaccid, the flesh was shrunk and wasted, the
cheek was worn and hollow, the form was feeble, and the whole figure
sat heaped together languidly, as if devoid of vitality.

The eyes alone retained their spirit. These still were haughty, en-
ergetic, defiant as ever. For as she sat there enwrapt in stony stillness,
she would watch the shifting clouds, now careering in fleecy whiteness
across the spring sether, now dappling lightly the summer blue, now
hurrying athwart the murky grey, or driving wildly along upon the
storm-blast ; but through all the countless varieties of form, and hue,
and motion, in cloudland, those dark eyes flashed ever towards the sky
proud defiance, accusation, and resentment of hopes defeated. None
the less a rebel to Heaven's will, for her voiceless inward chafing ; it
seemed as if the unrest of her soul fought all the more fiercely for the
marble quiescence of her body.

One bright noon, even in that Northern region, the sun shone with
powerful rays, and cast their broad light full into the chamber, where
the dark lady sat, as usual dumb and motionless, surrounded by her si-
lent women.

Bethoc, the aged nurse, held the child in her arms, as it struggled,
and strained, and held out its hands towards the sunbeams, that shed
Ihoir radiance in such bright alluring streams just within its reach. The
crowing joy and glad shrill tones of the little one sounded strangely iu
that silent room, as the babe shouted its imperfect utterances of delight,

THE thane's daughter. 107

at the gay danoing motes it beheld in the sunbeams ; and still it leaped
and bounded in the nurse's arms, and clutched at the brilliant atoms it
strove to grasp.

The mother's attention was arrested ; and she gazed upon the infant's
eagerness with a look of interest that her face had not worn for many a
month.

Then vexation succeeded to delight, as the phantom brightness stil]
eluded pursuit. The baby hands clenched aLgrily, and struck and buf
feted at the golden rays they could not seize.

The dark lady noted the rage that sprang from opposition with a
keen satisfied glance.

Frowns succeeded to smiles. Tears sparkled in the childish e^es.
Short shrieks, and cries of baffled will, took the place of former joyful
Growings ; until in at the window flew a small silver-winged moth, that
took its place with the motes in the sunbeams, dancing, and floating, and
playing up and down in the flood of light.

This tangible object of interest and pursuit pacified the babe ; and
all its clutchiDgs and strivings were renewed and concentrated upon this
pretty buoyant spark of brightness. The old nurse drew back with her
charge. '^ Let it alone, my darling ; ye'U kill the bonny wee thing ;
ye'U crush the poor little beastie."

'' Let her, so that she gets it !" exclaimed the dark lady abruptly.

The unwonted sound of her lady's voice made Bethoc start. The
child made one more plunge, and by chance, caught the silvery moth.

The next instant, the little fingers were unclosed ; to one of them
stuck the mangled insect, crushed even by so slight a touch. But as the
shild held up the victim of her success in baby triumph, and as her eyes
sparkled and glistened now with smiles as well as tears in token of joy-
ful conquest, the mother exclaimed exultingly : —

" Resolute in achievement ! Firm of purpose even unto death *
That should be a masculine spirit ! Bethoc, bring the little Amazon
to me !"

But as she uttered the words, a sharp sudden shiver passed over her
frame ; a spasm convulsed the face, and before the women could reach

!08 THE thane's daughtee.

her, ( r Bethoo oould place her ohild within her arms, the dark lady saidr
back, — a corpse.

The death of her mother made little difference in the coarse of the
child's daily existence. The dark lady's seat was unoccupied now ; but
the babe, unaccustomed to be fondled, or prattled to, or even noticed, by
the cold stationary figure that had so long filled it, seemed scarcely af-
fected by the change.

Once, indeed, when the little one was helping itself along by the
stools and chairs round the room, and learning to totter from one to the
other, by aid of its arms and hands, it stopped in front of this seat —
which was still called 'Hhe dark lady's," and never used by any one
since her death; — and then the child gazed wistfully upwards, as if
half calling to mind some object that it had been accustomed to behold
there.

Who shall say what limits there are to infant memory? Who may
tell what vague impressions of the pale cold figure that was wont to
abide there, and which was the only shadowy semblance of maternity
that had ever floated before the child's vision, might not at that moment
have wandered into its brain, and inspired one natural yearning to be-
hold even that faint shadow once again in its earthly form ?

The attendant women observed the child's pause, and thoughtful
look, and one to another said : — '^ Poor bairn, she's minded of her mo-
ther !"

" Maybe, she sees the dark lady's wraith ;" was the rejoinder, whis-
pered in an awe-stricken tone.

The old nurse Bethoc went softly to the side of her charge, and
hung over her, telling her pretty tales to amuse her, to draw off her at-
tention from the dark lady's seat, from which she gently led her away,
and began crooning an old nursery rhyme, that she might lull her to
sleep, and so efface the recollection which she thought might have dis-
turbed the child.

For some time the little Gruoch remained thus almost entirely in the
suite of apartments that had been her mother's ; tended by her women,

THE thane's daughter. 109

and fondled, and petted, and indulged bj them and the faithful old
nurse, Bethoo.

The means of air and exercise were supplied by a platform, or ram
part, of the castle, which closely neighboured this suite of rooms, and on
which it was the custom for the women, each in turn, to carry the child
up and down, whenever the weather permitted them to go forth.

By degrees, as the little limbs gained strength and skill in walking,
Gruoch would run about here herself ; and at length, it was a triumph with
Bethoc to carry the child down into the hall, or the courtyard, or on the
battlements, or wherever the lord of Moray might be, thac the father
should have the joy of beholding how well his little girl throve, and
that the child might have the pleasure of seeing and playing with hor
gentle old father.

The thane loved to have her brought to him, and to look upon the
growing beauty of his little daughter : but he had so long accustomed
himself to see that his presence gave no joy, and to believe that he did
not possess the requisite qualifications to render himself beloved by wo-
mankind, that he seldom detained her with him above a few minutes,
but gave her back to the nurse's care and women's tendance, as to so-
ciety more genial than his own could be.

With a doting nurse, and ministering attendants, the little Gruoch's
wishes were of course paramount ; and it soon befel, that the indulgence
of her will, the right of command, the custom of seeing herself obeyed
in all things, became habitual to her at her earliest age. She could
scarcely speak, ere her voice assumed the tone of authority ; and long
before she could reckon half a dozen years, she was mistress of the entire
household.

Her father yielded to her, from his native disposition, and from af-
fectionate tenderness towards the child of his old age. Bethoo indulged
her as the darling nursling of her advanced years, and as all that was
left to her of one to whom she had been attached in youth, and whom
she regretted dead — for Bethoc was one of the few who had truly and
devotedly loved " the dark lady." The waiting-women, one and all, pet-
ted and spoiled the little girl, as the only object that presented itself on

110 THE thane's daughter.

which to indulge their feminine propensities for fostering and cherishing
all that is young and helpless. The few retainers and men-at-arms that
the thane's impoverished fortunes enabled him to maintain, all wor-
shipped the little Gruoch as an image of grace and beauty'and infantine
loveliness, magnified all the more bj contrast with their own roughness
and uncouthness, and with the bare unpolished plainness of all that sur-
rounded her.

For in those remote times, in those periods of semi-barbarism, a
thane's castle was no fairy-bower, no haunt of elegance and refinement ;
but scantily-tapestried walls, strewed floors, rudely-covered tables, turret-
chambers, and rough-hewn battlements, were the only environments that
the highest Scottish lady could then boast.

But amid such a scene, the little lady Gruoch was gay and happy ;
for she was sovereign mistress of all she beheld, — rule and sovereignty
being the dominant desire of her nature. Short-sighted aim ! that sees
not how absolutely such worship enthrals the soul ! making slaves of
these would-be sovereigns ! bidding them for ever bow before a self-
created idol ! and cheating them with the perpetual mockery of supreme
sway, while enforcing perpetuity of homage from themselves I

As soon as she was able to run about by herself, the little girl found
means of evading the nurse's wish to retain her constantly within her
own supervision ; and she would stray from the women's range of apart-
ments, finding her way all over the castle in the spirit of inquisitiveness,
and childish love of investigation, and thirst for novelty.

Sometimes she would seek out her father, and take pleasure in seeing
the pleasure that always lighted up his venerable face at the sight of
hers — so beaming, so bright in its youthful beauty. She would linger
near him, and watch him fondle his dogs, three or four of which, of the
tall Scotch breed, always accompanied his steps, or surrounded his seat.
She would listen to the quiet tones of his voice as they spoke encourage-
ment to his favourites, or uttered kindly praise and affectionate admira-
tion towards herself ; she would stand close to him, that he might see
how tall she grew, and expatiate on the strange variation there was
between ber beauty and that of her mother — the one so dark, the other

THE thane's daughter. 1 1 .

BO fair — ^the one with ebon tresses, the other with looks like the goldec
beams of morning — the one with those full flashing orbs of sombre
depth, the other with eyes the colour of the azure lake when it reflects
the serene expanse of a summer sky.

And yet there was a latent expression, a something antagonistic, in
the clear beauty of that fair child. Surpassingly handsome she was ;
but yet a look there was in those blue eyes, that marred their loveliness
of shape and colour, and seemed sinisterly to contradict their attractive
power. In the mouth, too, round those full and rubious lips, and amid
those exquisite dimples, there played certain lines that presented indica-
tions of a startling contrast of will and unfeminine inflexibility with s^
much charm of feature, which might have produced sensations of repul-
sive surmise to one accustomed to seek charm in expression rather than
in linear beauty.

But among those by whom she was surrounded, there were no such
Bcrutinizers — no such fastidious analyzers. Her fond father dwelt with
rapture, and almost wonder, upon the face of his little girl, and found
naught there but loveliness ; and she, gratified with praise, would often
come to him that she might enjoy that which he so constantly and pro-
fusely lavished upon her. But sated with adulation, and accustomed to
indulgence, she soon tired of so monotonous an amusement, and she
lingered less and less by her old father's side, and strayed farther and
oftener in search of more congenial entertainment, than his quiet voice,
and approving looks could afford.

She was fond of peering into the armoury, and watching the man
who had the charge of the arms, perform his duties of cleaning, burnish-
ing, and arranging them, and keeping them in order, ready for use in
case of need ; as there was no knowing in those turbulent times, when
a sudden emergency might arise for the lord of a castle to put his men
under arms for defence. Here she would loiter, asking a thousand
questions about battle-axe, pike, dagger, lance, sword, aud cross-bow ;
and as the armourer polished helmet, morion, cuirass, corslet, haber-
geon, and breastplate, she would enquire the shape and meaning of each
several piece of coat-of-mail, and learn curiously the use of every sepa
rate weapon that she saw.

il2 THE THANFd DAUGHTER.

She loved too, to watoh the men-at-arms in the court-yard, praotiBing
their management of these different weapons, and she would note with
unwearied interest the dexterity and skill of the retainers in these war«
like sports and exercises.

There was a nook behind one of the buttresses, where the little girl
would often ensconce herself, whence she could see the feats of the men-
at-arms during their hours of exercise on the sward adjoining the court-
yard of the castle. Here she would lurk, and watch, unseen ; for she
had one day found her way out, of the lower apartments of the castle by
a small dismantled window, or narrow outlet, through wtioh she had
crept to see the sword exercise, the pike-tossing, and the cross-bow
shooting.

There was one man she remarked who was peculiarly sjdlful in the
handling of all sorts of weapons. He was a tall, stalwart fellow, singa-
larly uncouth and ugly, with wild shaggy hair, and a ferocious look.
His name was Grym. But he uniformly surpassed all his companions
in adroitness, bold daring, activity, expertness, and success in his feats
of arms. So to this large, ungainly, ill-favored, but triumphant giant,
did the child take a strong fancy, and he became a sort of hero, a personi-
fication of conquest and success, a favorite rallying point for all her
wishes and interest in the scene of contention.

Once, when there arose a dispute as to which arrow had flown the
best, and hit the nearest to the centre of the target, several voices con-
tending clamorously for the rival claims of the two most successful bow-
man,— Grym and Ivan, — the little girl suddenly sprang forward fi*om
her nook, and joined the group of disputants, loudly and eagerly de-
claring that Grym was the victor.

" Don't you see ! Don't you see !" she exclaimed, pointing up to the
mark, which was high above her head ; " That's his shaft ! Right in
the clout !"

" I'll lift you up, my young lady." said one of the men ; " and you'll
then see that Ivan's arrow is just a point nighest."

" Let Grym lift me up I Here Grym ! Take me up I Hold me
fast ! Here, don't you see, all of you," shouted the child in all the ex-

THE thane's DAUOHTSa. 113

oitement of proving her words, and awarding the victory to her hero ;
while with one hand she clung round the neck of the savage-looking
archer, and with the other pointed triumphantly to the spot where his
arrow rested : " Don't you all see that Grym's is the best shaft?"

The child's excitement communicated itself to the men, and they
one and all shouted — Ivan and his partizans as eagerly as any —
" Grym's is the best ! Grym is conqueror !"

From that day Grym was the avowed favorite and playmate of the
little lady Gruoch ; and his fellows were prevented from feeling any
jealousy at this preference, in the oddity of the association ; for it was
strange to see the fair child, a thing of smiles, and beauty, and grace,
take a fancy to that grisly man-at-arms, and cling round his great bull*
neck, and nestle within his huge stalwart arms, and make him carry her
about from place to place to show her all the curiosities of drawbridge,
portcullis, and moat, donjon-keep, and fortalice, tower and battlement,
platform and rampart, embrasure and loop-hole, outwork, barbican,
postern-gajbe, turret, and buttressed wall; all the curious places, and
out-of-the way nooks and corners about a strongly defended castle, that
possessed so wondrous an interest for an inquisitive and restless child.

Bethoc would try to win her from this whimsical preference, and
sought to detain her within the women's apartments by tales and legends
that she thought might amuse her fancy, and prevent her seeking enter*
tainment from companionship and pursuits that the old nurse could not
but think unseemly for her charge.

She would tell her of her mother ; of her lofty nature, of her high-
birth, of her ambitious hopes ; of her regret at the passive disposition
of her lord ; of her yearning for a son who might inherit the united
honors of the noble houses from which he sprang, and who might win
renown and added glory by his deeds of arms. She would tell her
many a romantic tradition of her ancestors, of their heroic achieve*
ments, of their martial feats on the battle-field, of their noble alliances,
of the mingling of even royal blood in their veins, of the proud assertion
of their rights, of their daring exploits in maintenance of their claims^
of their keen sense of honor, and of their deadly resentment of injury

114 THB THilNE's DAUOHTEa.

There was one sijry that Bethoo especially loved to tell, for it would
always win Gruoch's deep attention, and enchain her to the old nurse's
side while she related its dark terrors.

It was of how Fanella, the lady of Fettercairn, had vowed a fatal
revenge upon the reigning king, for having caused the death of her son
Cruthlint. Of how she had been sleepless in devising means for the
compassing of her vengeance. Of how she had caused a goodly tower,
adorned with copper finely engraven with divers flowers and images, to
be built adjoining her own castle. Withinside, it was hung about with
rich arras cloth, wrought costlywisc in gold and silver. Behind this
arras were cross-bows set ready bent with sharp quarrels in thenL In
the midst was placed a fine brazen image, in likeness of the king himself,
holding, in the one hand, a fair golden apple set full of precious stones,
devised with such art and cunning, that so soon as it should be seized,
or removed never so small a space, the cross-bows would immediately
discharge their quarrels with great force and violence.

Fenella, knowing the king had a taste for comely buildings, entreat-
ed him in seeming loyalty, that he would honor her poor house by com*
ing to see this goodly tower that she had caused to be erected ; and when
he came to her castle of Fettercairn, she entertained him in sumptuous
manner, and after meat she led the king to behold the chamber within
the tower. Her royal guest commended much the costly taste of the
hangings and furniture, and marvelled greatly at the image that stood in
the centre, surveying it attentively, and asking what it might signify*
The Lady Fenella told him that it was made to represent his own royal
person, and that the golden apple crusted so rich with emeralds, sap-
phires, topazes, rubies, and turquoises, had been provided by herself aa
a gift for him. This she besought him to accept in good part, though
not in value worthy to be offered unto his princely honor and high dig-
nity, and though it in so slight measure carried with it the sentimenta
of her heart towards his kingly person.

^' It carried hatred and death with it to the murderer of her son,"
Gruoch would mutter, as she kept her eyes fastened on Bethoo, devour-
ing each word that fell from the nurse's lips.

THE thane's daughter. 115

Bethoc would shake her aged head, and speak of leaving vengcanoe
in the hands of Heaven : but the story went on to say, that the lady Fe
nella framed some excuse to withdraw from the king's side, feigning to
search for something in a chest or coffer that stood in an adjoining closet.
Then the king, taking much delight in viewing the gems and orient
stones, and wishing the nearer to inspect their rare beauty, stretched
forth his hand to remove the apple, which he had no sooner done, than
incontinently the cross-bows discharged their quarrels so directly upon
him, that he fell to the ground, pierced in sundry places, and there lay
stark dead. Meantime, the king's servants still waited in the outer
chamber, awaiting the coming forth of their royal master, with his fair
hostess. But after long abiding, and they found that he came not back,
they knocked first softly at the door ; then more loudly ; then rapped
hard and clamorously ; and lastly, misdoubting that somewhat had hap-
pened, they broke open door after door, until at length they came into
the chamber where the king lay cold dead upon the floor. Then the cry
and alarm was raised by his attendants, and the lady of Fettercairn was
cursed and sought for everywhere, all men accusing her of having com-
mitted this heinous and wicked deed.

" And Fenella ?" eagerly whispered the young auditress.

When she beheld the king drop dead, she tarried not a moment, but
fled secretly away by a postern door into a wood hard by, where she had
appointed horses to wait ready for her, so that she escaped all danger of
pursuit, ere the king's death was discovered. Fenella was safe, but she
was compelled to fly her country ; she took refuge in Ireland, where she
was &in to abide in exile and concealment.

'' But she gained her end !" was Gruoch's comment at the conclusion
of the tale.

There was a wood in the vicinity of the castle of Moray, where the
little lady Gruoch loved to wander, and fancy it like the one which had
favored the escape of Fenella from her castle of Fettercairn. She would
make Grym carry her thither, of a bright spring or summer morning ;
and here she would play about, attended only by her gaunt favorite, and

116 THE thane's daughter.

the youDg page, Culen, who, with a boys sagacity in finding out what h€
liked, and in securing it when found out, always contrived to be of the
party, when he saw Grym, with the little lady in his arms, take the path
to the wood. Culen soon ingratiated himself with his young lady-mis-
tress, by a thousand ingenious devices. Now he would bring her a rus-
tic crown and sceptre, woven skilfully of rushes from the margin of the
lake; anon, heaps of wild flowers to adorn her mossy throne in the
wood ; another time, feathers from the eagle's wing, or the jay's, which he
would deftly form into a sylvan fan for her ; and sometimes he would
thread scarlet berries into chains and bracelets to hang around her neck
and arms, and twine amid her bright gold hair.

These boyish offerings were graciously accepted by the little lady,
who received them as a sort of homage due. She even grew to take
pleasure in seeing the page constantly form one in the association that
had grown between herself and Grym — but she always treated Culen aa
a vassal and an inferior, while to Grym she behaved familiarly and
almost fondly, as one in whom she recognised that which she could
admire and respect.

And truly there was that in the uncouth Grym which might com-
mand both admiration and respect. Not only was there the power of
conquest, and the assurance of success in his stalwart proportions,
which had originally won the young Gruoch's regard, by appealing
forcibly to her ruling passion for supremacy and sovereignty in the
abstract, and to her unconscious tendency to attach herself to their
external images wherever they might present themselves, — ^not only
was there this symbol of power in Grym, but there was a kind heart,
much right feeling, and good sense, beneath the rough exterior of this
huge man-at-arms.

He had a gruff voice, and an abrupt mode of speaking ; but he had
just sentiments, and benevolent feelings. He was spare and curt in
words ; but his heart overflowed with honest good-meaning. His bear
ing was ungain, his features were harsh, and his countenance was for<
bidding ; but he would not have hurt a fly, and he was incapable of at
ungenerous thought or mean action.

THE thane's daughter. 117

He was keenly sensible of the fancy the beautiful, child, Gruoch, had
taken to him, ugly as he was ; and his attachment towards his young
mistress was profound and devoted. It was unexpressed, save in action,
but it was none the less ardent for its smothered light. It burned
steadily though silently, within the recesses of his own heart.

It was like a potent spell, the hold which the young beauty had upon
the affections of those around her. The old thane, her father ; Bethoc.
the aged nurse : Grym, the brave man-at-arms ; Culen, the young page ;
all doted upon her very footsteps, and yielded implicitly to the fascina-
tion which she exercised over their feelings. It seemed impossible to
behold the fair brilliant being, and not worship the image of trium-
phant beauty she presented. Her very habit of command seemed to
heighten her charms, and imperatively to claim homage, admiration,
and regard.

She was one day straying in the wood, attended only by Grym,-*
Culen having gone to seek for some water-lilies, that he had noted
on the shores of the lake, and intended to weave into a garland for her,
— ^when suddenly, on approaching the rustic seat of moss which she was
accustomed to occupy as her sylvan throne when she rested in the
wood, Gruoch perceived a figure seated there, in a half-reclining atti-
tude. It was that of a Highlander. He seemed faint and way-worn,
and drooped his head forward upon his hands, so that his face was hid-
den from them as they approached. At first Gruoch bade Grym go
and bid the man retire from the seat which was hers — ^her throne ; but
the next moment, noting his weary and dejected attitude, she added : —
" Stay, the man seems tired ; let him come to the castle for rest and
refreshment."

The Highlander raised his head slowly. '' There is death at tho
eastle !" he exclaimed solemnly.

Then steadily regarding the lady Gruoch for a few seconds, he add-
ed : — " What is it I trace on that fair young brow ! But such weird
shall not be read by me for one that has just proffered rest and refresh-
ment." And he sank into his former attitude.

'^ Go, Grym, and assist him to rise ;" said the little girL << What
does he mean ? Is he sick ?"

118 THE thane's daughter.

Grjm shook his head, and looked round for Culen, that he miglii
iend for aid to the castle ; for he was resolved not to quit his joun(|
lady's side.

The page came up at the moment, and Grym despatched him f<n
some of his fellows, that thej might come to the stranger's assistance;
and snppoi't him to the castle.

^' Take me home, Grym," whispered little Gruoch. " Take me
up in your arms, I want to hold by you. I don't like him ! Take me
away 1"

Grym felt the child tremble, as he lifted her up in his arms, and
bore her from the spot ; for she had thought upon what the Highlander
had said ; and, as will sometimes happen with sounds unnoted at the
moment of utterance, their sense recurring afterwards, his words now
conveyed an import to her mind that they had failed in doing at the
time.

^' What did he mean by ' death in the castle,' Grym?" whispered she,
after they had proceeded some paces.

Grym only shook his head again.

" Speak, Grym — ^you must speak — ^I want to hear your voice," said
the child, grasping his shaggy hair, and pulling his face round towards
her own. " Look at me, and tell me, Grym !"

^' God grant it be* not second-sight 1 Some of these Highlanders
have the gift," muttered Grym.

" What do you mean ? ' Second^sight !' I don't know what you
mean, now, Grym. Speak, speak!" And the little lady tugged and
pulled at the shaggy locks, in the vehemence of her eagerness to urge
the taciturn Grym to explain.

*' We shall know soon enough, when we reach the castle ;" said he.

Gruoch said no more, for she had fallen into a fit of thought. Sho
could not help dreading that something fatal had happened to her fitther.
Many indistinct feelings came upon her of kindliness towards that gentle
old man, who had never thwarted her, never spoken harsh words to her,
never crossed or chidden her, but was all indulgence, and praise, and
fond admiration for her. She had an imperfect sense of having neglected

THE thane's daughter. 119

him, of haying disregarded his wish to have her near him, of having
almost despised his partiality for her, and felt his fondling to be insipid,
wearisome, and distasteful. All these thoughts were vague, and dimly
felt by her ; but still they flitted athwart the little girl's fancy, and
added a sting to the pain and grief which she began to fear might await
her. She wa^ still a mere child, but she was old enough to feel what
remorse might be, added to the tidings of a father's death, even though
she could not have given a name to the feeling itself

She had scarcely crossed the drawbridge and court-yard of the castle,
than she threw herself out of Grym's arms, sprang to the ground, and
rushed into the hall where her father usually sat, surrounded by his
dogs, near the hearth. There, in his wonted place, she found him ; and
with a warmth of gratitude and love that had never before swelled her
heart, she flung herself into his arms, weeping and sobbing upon his
breast, while she hugged him passionately and repeatedly.

Surprised and alarmed at the violence of her emotion, the old thane
enquired what had happened to grieve and terrify his darling.

Grym stepping forward to relate the encounter in the wood, and her
father dreading that to hear it repeated, would only increase the agita-
tion of his child, desired some one to go and fetch Bethoc, that she
might soothe and comfort her young mistress ; then bethinking himself,
he added : — ^^ No, no, not Bethoc ! Let some one go and bid Eoda and
Lula come for their young lady."

And thus this kind-meaning, but weak parent missed the occasion oi
himself ministering to the mind's health of his daughter ; and delegated
to others the charge of bestowing sympathy and solace, which should
have been his own care in the hour of grief, alarm, and awakened
conscience.

Soon after Gruoch had been led away by her women, she learned
that the reason Bethoc had not been summoned to her aid, was, that the
poor old nurse had been seized with sudden paralysis that morning, and
had expired not half an hour before her young mistress returned to the
eastle.

" Then hers was the death predicted I" thought Gruoch. And io

120 THE THANE^S DAUGHTER.

the relief of finding it was not her father's, that of the aged and faithfld
Bethoc was comparatively unfelt

When those of the household who had been summoned by Colon to
the assistance of the Highlander, reached the wood, they found no trace
of him. He had departed, — ^yanished, from the spot ; , and had not
Grym and the page both seen him, the men would have believed that
his having been there at all was a mere fancy of their young mistress's.
As it was, his sudden appearance and disappearance, joined to the cir-
cumstance of Bethoc's death taking place precisely when the stranger's
mysterious words had foretold the event, caused the matter to be ad-
verted to in whispers only, and there were few among the retainers of
the castle of Moray who did not shudder when the Highlander of the
wood was mentioned. But in course of time, the circumstance faded
from their thoughts, and it was not only no more spoken of among
them, but no more remembered.

A year or two passed away ; and for somewhile after Bethoo's
death, Gruoch's interest and attention were drawn towards her old
father in a degree that they had never been before. She would hang
about his chair, and watch his face, and speak dutifully to him, and try
to minister to his little daily comforts, and seek to enjoy his presence,
and to give him more of hers ; but there was something essentially
unsympathetic in their natures that did not harmonize, or render their
companionship a comfort or a joy to either of them. Never demonstra-
tive or affectionate in her manner, she felt awkward and ill at ease in
the presence of one whose gentleness and soft manners seemed to call
for some corresponding suavity on her part. There was a perverse
interchange in their respective positions, as it were. The father, from
his submissive, easy disposition, shrinking from authority, which he
neither exercised himself, nor resisted from others ; the daughter, wil-
ful, imperious, accustomed to dictate, — they seemed unfitly associated as
parent and child. Their relations seemed reversed, and produced an
untoward assimilation.

She would sit at her father's feet, and gaze up into his face, and

THE thane's daughter. 121

ihlnk upon these things ; and wonder how it should be, that with the
sincere and strong attachment which she felt for him, — an attach*
ment that had caused her to start with terror from the possibility of
losing him, — still that there should be withal so little of happiness or
delight in their being together. And yet that mild face \ That snow-
white hair 1 Those bland eyes and mouth ! Surely she felt very
fondly, very pitifully towards so much meekness and softness ? Tes,
she did. But it was that very pity, that very mingling of something
akin to compassion which pervaded all her feelings towards him, that
prevented the fulness of a daughter's love — the joy that such love
should create.

Not pity and compassion, but respect and reverence, are the true
guiding lights that should direct a child's gaze to its parent, and that
should shed a glory and a crowning beauty around a parent's brow ; —
and it was the lack of these natural rays that darkened and abated the
joy of love which should have arisen from Gruoch's affection for her
father.

One evening as she sat there, on a low stool at his feet, gazing as
uaual into his face, and thinking of what Bethoc had told her of her
mother's regret that there should have been so little of martial ardour,
of aspiring in his nature, so total an absence of ambition, of thirst for
preferment or advancement of any kind, Gruoch thought how ardently
she longed to pour some of her own spirit into that placid nature ; how
she would willingly infuse some of her own youth and vitality into his
veins, where the blood flowed so tamely and sluggishly ; how eagerly
she would part with some of her own vigour and strength, to impart
energy and impulse to those aged limbs, those supine and flaccid
muscles.

Her pity for such infirmity almost assumed the poignancy of con*
tempt. " Where sufferings are so passive,'* thought she, " what wonder
that the heel of the tyrant crushes ? Patience encourages oppression.
Submission courts fresh wrong. Contentment beneath such injuries
shows like crime. Would that the old man possessed my sense of in-
acting evil, my spirit to resist it, my youth and activity to avenge

122 ISE THANE'S DAU6HTEK*

and redress I" She thought upon the shame of seeing the wealth of a
noble house mulcted to feed the royal avarice (for Malcolm II, the thea
reigning king, had grown covetous and grasping in his old age, and op-
pressed his nobles with incessant severity) ; she thought upon the wrong
and bitter degradation of claims unmaintaincd, of extortions tamely
submitted to, of honors unsought, of injustice unresisted and upresent-
ed, until her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed with the burning
thoughts that possessed her. Her father happened to look upon her
upturned face at this moment, and started at the images he beheld of
the brooding wrath and vengeance that rankled at her heart, and cast
their reflex upon her countenance.

There was something so appalling in this antagonistic expression,
which animated features of such exquisite beauty, that even her unob-
servant father could not but perceive its effects, and he exclaimed : —
" What's the matter, my darling ? You look as Fenella of Fettercaim
might have looked, child, when she led my royal ancestor to the fatal
tower-chamber. Don't look in that way, darling. And the old thane
passed his hand over his child's beautiful face, as if to remove the ter-
rible look that marred its loveliness.

" And who was Fenella?" asked Gruoch.

'^ 0, she was an ancestress of your mother's ; but don't let us think
about Fenella — ^it's a dark story — and not fit for my bright beauty — ^my
innocent child." He patted her fair head, and smoothed down her long
golden locks ; and with the fatal weakness which was a part of hia ex*
eeeding gentleness, he evaded present perplexity, instead of seizing the
occasion to administer wholesome instruction, — to inculcate salutary ad-
monition and precept.

Oruoch held down her head, and thought within herself that Bethoo
had already told her the story, so that she need not care for her father's
evasion. She felt that he had put her off with this slight answer, and
she therefore indulged the triumph of knowing that his intention was
foiled by her previous acquaintance with the tale he would have ooi>
oealed.

<< He does not care to tell me anything," thought she. '^ He does not

THB thane's daughter. 128

•

Oftre to talk to me. He is contented to sit there qnietly, hardly looking
at me, with his hand upon my head." She half withdrew it from be-
neath his touch, at the moment, with a suppressed sound of annoyance
^ He strokes my hair, and pats my head, just as he caresses his hounds.
I wonder whether he loves me better than one of those dogs."

After a time, when the train of her reflections had a little softened,
and were somewhat less bitter, she looked up again towards her father's
face. It was serene and calm as usual, and the eyes were closed. He
had fallen asleep quietly, with his hand upon his child's fair head ; there
was a look of deep repose, and an almost holy benignity in his aspect,
which touched her, as the thought crossed her mind that it was merci-
fully sleep, and not death, which she gazed upon.

^ Kind old father !" she muttered. '' He does love me ; and I love
him!"

And Gruoch stepped softly on to the little stool from which she had
risen, and leaned over him, and kissed the face of her father as he slept.

But gradually the old restlessness returned ; and Gruoch found the
constant companionship of her parent as irksome as ever. She loved
him (as has been said), and felt dutifully towards him ; more afifection-
ately, perhaps, since the emotion of anxiety she had experienced for his
life ; but after a time, she stayed with him but a brief portion of the
day. She resumed her old haunts, renewed her association with Grym,
sought her former pursuits, and learned to add new and other amuse<
ments to those she had formerly found in company with her ungain fa-
vorite, and the young page, Culen.

The latter had now grown a tall stripling ; but his devotion to his
young lady-mistress bore full proportion to his growth. It increased
with his height ; which is not always the case with the liking of boys, at
his age. A boy will often feel a strong attachment to a little girl, while
they are both so young, as to make them mere children together ; but when
he starts up into a tall lad, a youthful man, he is apt to acquire notions
of importance and superiority, that make him treat the little girl as a
«hild still, while he considers himself a man.

124 THE thane's daughtbr.

Not only, however, did the aathoritative manner, and oommanding
style of beauty, that distingtuBhed the young lady Gruoch, tend to pre-
serve her influence over the lad's feelings ; but her superior rank, and
relative position with himself, served to maintain respect and admiration
on his part towards her. Her commanding mien has been more than
once alluded to, but this arose from no advantage of height. Her figure
was small and slight, her stature diminutive, her complexion delicately
fair, which gave her the appearance of being younger than she really was ;
but the effect of her personal charms upon all those within the sphere of
her influence was potent, impressive, and irresistible. Many little women
have been known to possess this ascendency over mankind.

But she was still a very young girl, when once, she and Grym hap*
pened to be practising with bow and arrows at a mark, that had been
set up at one end of the long platform on the ramparts of the castle,
which has before been alluded to as adjoining the women's range of
apartments. This was a favorite pastime with her, and she had attain*
ed some skill under the teaching of the veteran man-at-arms. She was
just in the act of fixing a fresh shaft, and preparing to take aim again,
when her eye caught sight of the page, who approached along the range
of platform, tossing lightly up and down something which he held in hifl
hand, and which was gay and parti-coloured.

" What is that, Culen ? A ball I And how light, and how well*
made ! Is it for me 1"

^ Yes, my lady, it is for you. I made it, hoping you would like to
have it."

'^ It is very handsome ! Thank you, Culen ; I like it very mu^L
How well you have made it I How bright the colours are 1 And how
well it files !"

The young lady tossed the ball high in the air, and watched it with
her upturned face, and sprang forward to catch it as it fell.

" Throw it straight up, or you'll pitch it over into the oourt-yard
below, my lady," said Grym, as he walked to the other end of the plat>
form, to collect the arrows from the target, ready for his young mistresf
when she might choose to resume the sport, after tiring of her new
plaything.

THE thane's daughter. 125

She continued for some minutes tossing up the ball, and watching
ihe flying gay colours ; while the page stood by, to look upon the bright
beautiful face, the graceful form that bounded to and fro in agile
pursuit

When she ceased for a moment, panting, smiling, and out of breath,
Culen said ; — ^^ I have something else to show you, that I think will
please your ladyship ; I found it out yesterday. There are plenty
about the castle heights ; but this one is so near that you can see right
into it, and watch the birds."

The page stepped upon a stone ledge which formed a kind of seat in
a recess of the battlemented outer wall that skirted the platform ; and
signed to his young mistress that she should silently follow his exam-
ple, and peep over. She climbed up by his side ; and looked oyer the
ridge of the wall, in the direction of his finger. Upon a slight jutting
point, — a timeworn inequality of the wall, a pair of martlets had built
their nest ; and from the spot where the young lady and the page stood,
they could see the callow nestlings with their gaping mouths ; they
could watch the parent birds take short wheeling flights, and return to
hover at the opening of the nest, and supply their young cues with food.

For some time Gruoch continued to watch this pretty sight with in-
terest ; then she stepped down from the stone seat, and began to toss
her ball again. Suddenly it swerved in its upward flight, and fell just
beyond the wall.

The page sprang to the spot he had just quitted, and exclaimed : —
" I see it ! It has lodged just below the nest ! Look ! On that frieze,
that range of fretwork just beneath !"

" I see it ! I see it !" cried Gruoch, who had stepped up again by
his side. " It looks quite near ! What a pity we can't reach it ! 0^
my beautiful ball !''

'^ If I had but a ledge ever so small to set my foot upon, I could get
it. ; I know I could !" exclaimed Culen. "Jt's quite close, I could be
over in a moment !"

'' Would you venture ?" said his ypung mistress, looking at him
approvingly.

126 THE thane's dauohter.

'^ That I would ! I oould get it in an instant, if I had bnt a spot to
step my foot upon- — ever such a point would do ! If the martlet's nest
were not there, now, that would be quite room enough !'*

^^ But we can soon dislodge the nest, if that's all !" exclaimed
Gruoch. "Here's one of Grym's long shafts — that'll do exactly to
poke it off with."

" Oh no !" said the page haatily.

*• Are jou afraid ?" said she, looking at him abruptly.

" No, not that ; but I don't like — I can't push the nest off," «ud
Oulen.

" Then I will ! Give me the arrow !" she exclaimed.

Gruoch leaned over the edge ; fixed the point of the arrow into the
caked mud and earth which fastened the nest to the jutting point;
loosened it; raised it; and in another moment, the martlet's home
with its unfledged tenants, spun whirling through the air, and was scat-
tered to pieces, striking against the buttresses and rough hewn walls.
She stayed not to note its career, but turned to the page.

" Now, Culen ! It was a brave offer ! Have you courage ? I will
hold your baud firm ! Give it me."

The page seized the beautiful little hand that was held out to him,
and taking the arrow in the other, that he might reach and secure the
soft ball with it, he climbed over the edge of the outer wall, which was
narrower there, on account of the deep recess that was made in its
thickness, and formed the ledge on which they stood.

But when he set his foot upon the jutting point which had lately
held the nest, and then planted the other foot on the same spot, and
after that, carefully stooped down, and stretched his arm out, so as to
stick the arrow into the ball, that he might raise it, and convey it to the
top of the wall, — ^he had no sooner effected this, than he suddenly felt
his head reel, and his eyes swim at the unaccustomed height over which
he hung suspended, merely sustained by that frail support.

He closed his eyes for an instant, and struggled to nerve himsolf
boldly against the thought of the small point on which he stood, and to
shut out the view of the depth beneath hint

THE thane's daughter. 127

Gmoch felt the spasmodic twitch that these sensations communicated
lo the hand she grasped.

" Keep firm, Culen ! Hold fast my hand ! I have yours tight !"
And the small hand never trembled, or wavered, but clutch<^d close,
like a vice.

Her voice did him good ; her tone of resolution inspired him,
her steady grasp encouraged him ; and he was enabled to recall his
dizzied senses.

He looked up, and as he beheld that exquisite face leaning over
towards him, anxiety and interest in each lineament, and wish for his
success beaming in every feature, he flung up the ball from the point of
the arrow, and strove to regain the top of the wall.

But on raising his arm to the edge, he found he should not be able
to obtain sufficient purchase, — even when he should gain the assistance
of the other hand which was now held by Gruoch, — to enable him to
draw himself up that height. The point upon which he stood afforded
too little space, the weight of his body was too great, to allow of his
climbing up again unassisted.

The page cast one look of mute dismay towards his young mistress.

She perceived his peril.

" Keep a brave heart, Culen ! Hold my hand steadily ! You are
safe, fear not !" she exclaimed. " Here, Grym ! Grym ! Come here ;
make haste. Help, Grym ! — help !"

The whole scene has occupied some time to relate ; but it had in
fact passed so rapidly, that by no means a long time had elapsed since
Grym had retreated to the other end of the platform to fetch the arrows.
While occupied in collecting them, he had not perceived what had been
going on at that distance ; but he now hastened to the spot, on hearing
his young lady's call for assistance.

He soon perceived the emergency ; and hardly giving utterance to
his thought: — ^"What have these children been about?" he leaned
over the top of the wall, and seizing Culen's hand from Gruoch in his
own herculean grip, he drew him carefully, but readily, from his peril-
mis position.

128 THE thane's daughter.

The first impulse of the kind-hearted bow-man, was to hug the lad
in his arms, and to enquire whether he was hurt ; the next was to shake
him by the scuff of his neck, and to ask him gruffly, " "What d'ye mean
by playing such fool's tricks, master page ? Don't you see how you've
frightened my young lady, here ?"

And as they both looked at Gruoch, they saw her tarn pale ; she
staggered forward, and would have fallen to the ground, had not Orjm
caught her in his arms.

" Poor lamb !" he muttered, as he bore her gently to her own apart-
ments, to recover ; " She's as tender-hearted as she's beautiful.'*

" And she feels thus for me !" whispered Culen's heart, as he
stood rooted to the spot, his cheek flushed, and his chest heaving, at
the thought.

They were wrong. Neither the page nor the man-at-arms guessed
that her swoon was the effect of mere physical sympathy ; a sickening
sense of danger past ; a reaction of the nerves, — ^braced for the mo-
ment by strength of will, with an object in view, — but suddenly relaxed
from their tension, by the native weakness of a frame less powerful
than her spirit.

Years passed on. The handsome girl became a confirmed beauty ;
the wilful child became the determined woman ; for with such a charac-
ter as hers, youth early acquires the self-possession and decision whioh
in softer natures belongs only to a more advanced maturity: and
Gruoch, still in her non-age, and in person singularly delicate, was yet
in spirit, in bearing, in formed opinion, a woman.

Her affection for her father was the tenderest sentiment she felt ;
but it was the tenderness of pity, of protection. Her partiality for
Grym was the most active preference she had ; and this displayed itself
in familiar treatment, esteem for his good qualities, confidence, com-
panionship, and mutual ease of intercourse. Her liking for the page
partook of kindly tolerance ; and she accepted his services, and his de-
votion to her every wish, as those of a faithful serf, or of an attached and
favorite spaniel. She had ever been accustomed to regard him in the

THE thane's daughter. 129

light of entire inferiority, so that he scarcely presented timself to her
mind as one of the same race with herself, and she would as soon have
dreamed of one of her father's hounds conceiving a passion for her, as
have entertained the most remote suspicion of the one which glowed in
the heart of the brave and handsome Culen.

His very personal advantages were unnoted by her as belonging to
manly beauty. He seemed scarce a man, to her ; he was a page, a re-
tainer, a servant— no more.

The constant sense of his subordinate state, rendered her blind to the
traces of feeling in him, as to the traits which exteriorly distinguished
him ; she was as far from guessing the love that lurked in his heart, as
she was from perceiving the graces that adorned his person ; and she as
little noted the evidences of the passion that burned within, as the eyes
themselves, which shot forth such ardent expression. The altered voice,
the changed colour, the checked respiration, the agitated frame, at her
unexpected approach, or her sudden address, no more struck her than
did the well-favored countenance, the handsome figure, or the comely
bearing of the young man. Had he possessed the brilliant advantages
of nobility, or even gentle blood, it might have lent her light to discern
his native merits, — ^but wanting this grace, the rest were as naught in
her eyes. She was not even aware of their existence.

One evening she had been pacing the castle platform, enjoying the
purity of the mountain air, and the pleasant warmth of the sun, which
shed a glowing beauty upon all around, — valley, lake, and hill lying
steeped in the golden light, ere the setting glory should depart. Ste
was attended as usual by Grym and Culen, with the former of whom she
was discussing the incidents and success of a falcon match that they had
flown together the day before. From hawking, they went on to talk of
other sports, and the lady Gruoch took occssion to acknowledge the ob-
ligations her skill owed to Grym's tuition. In alluding to archery, she
was reminded of her childish exploits with the bow, and of the scene
which had taken place while they were practising on the very rampart
where they now stood.

" I have hardly looked over there, since that time," said she, stopping

130 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

at the recess in the battlcmented wall. " Here's the verj spot ! Do yoo
remember, Culen? where you climbed over for my ball; and where yoa
turned so giddy at the moment, and I so faint afterwards 1 Give ma
your hand ; I'll look over now."

" She stepped up, on to the stone ledge, as she spoke ; Grym support-
ing her on ^onc side, Culen holding her hand, as she bade him, on the
other. But he was fain to rest his elbow on the ridge of the wall, for
the purpose of steadying the hand which held hers, that she might not
perceive it tremble. She spoke to Grym on the singular power of height ;
of the involuntary submission of the nerves to its influence ; of the phy-
sical effect it has been known to have upon the stoutest hearts ; upon
the ability to resist this effect ; of the possibility of subduing it by prao-
tice, and by habituating the frame to such trials. She spoke of endur-
ance, fortitude, bravery, and of her admiration and emulation of such
virtues. Of strength, and of courage, and of how she marvelled that
any one could rank softness and sweetness by their side.

" Of what use are these so-called virtues ?" said she. " Do they gain
anything? Do they serve to win one high object? One single end
worthy of attainment ? Softness, sweetness, meekness, gentleness, and
a whole tribe of these washy goodnesses, were only styled virtues by
knaves who sought to take advantage of the easy prey which such a
creed would produce them in its professors."

" Then you, my lady, would not give your vote for our new king
Duncan, if monarchy went by election," said Grym.

• *' Not I, in faith," answered the lady. " He seems to be too like his
predecessor ; who built churches, when he should have erected fortifica-
tions against the Danish inroads ; gave his people public prayers to say,
when he should have fir.ed their hungry mouths ; sent forth his book of
Regia Majestas under pretence of wisely establishing laws and ordi-
nances for the government of his realm, when he might have advanced
their honor and glory by conquest and worthy achievement ; and so got
the name of sanctity, while he outraged all godliness by his avarice and
his selfishness. Out upon such carpet virtues, which might show well
pnough in a clerkly monk, but beseem not a monarch, a Scottish sovo-

THE thane's daughter. 13'i

reign ! And when, pray, is this gracious meekness, this new-inflicted
suavity, this milk-and-water amiability to be crowned ?

^ This day sennight is appointed for the convocation of nobles at
Scone, my lady ;" replied Gryni. " The coronation is to be celebrated
with great magnificence, they say."

''And how do the people stand affected to the new sovereign?"
asked his mistress. '' Does report say whether he be popular ?
Though all new monarchs are popular, as a matter of course."

" Public opinion hath two voices just now ;" said Grym. " Though
most men are loud in their praises of the good king Duncan, there *ure
not wanting those who say his cousin Macbeth would haVe better filled
the throne. He is a right valiant gentleman, and hath well-nigh as
close claims to the monarchy as the king himself, being descended in
the like right line ; for Macbeth is the son of the one daughter of our
late Malcolm II, as Duncan is the other."

^ Then why not have chosen the valiant knight, instead of the car-
pet knight ? Why not Macbeth, rather than Duncan, if they possess
equal claims ?" asked Gruoch.

" Because Duncan's mother was the elder of the two sisters ;" re-
plied Grym. " Besides, it is whispered that the valour of Macbeth par-
takes of somewhat more than hardihood and bravery, and that to what
his partizans call courage, his enemies might give the harsher name of
cruelty."

^ The bold and daring never want for enemies among the weak and
timid, who are legion ;" said lady Gruoch ; " and who stigmatize that
which they cannot hope to emulate."

While she thus conversed, she had remained half sitting half kneel-
ing, in the recess, and had been leaning upon 4be ridge of the wall, or
rather upon the arm of the page ; who perceiving that she still rested
upon the stone ledge, and wishing to preserve her shoulder from its
hard contact, had placed his arm so that she might have its inter-
vention.

She leaned upon it as she would have done upon a cushion, or upon
his cloak, had he folded it into one for the purpose ; totally unconscioui

132 THE thane's daughter.

that the support she used was human in its sense of her touoh, or that!
there was human sympathy, human affection, human passion, heating al
the heart close beside her.

Every pulse, every fibre of the arm upon which she leaned, thrilled
with the consciousness of its contact with the fair body that it upheld ;
but it might have been a mere mat, for aught she knew of the sensa-
tions with which it was instinct.

'' If it were not that all the world is sunk into apathy, and infatuated
with seeming virtues and inglorious love of ease," continued the lady,
'' public opinion could have had but one voice, and that voice would
have been for valiant Macbeth, instead of the poor-spirited Duncan*
Were all men of my mind, better befits a sceptre be wielded with harsh-
ness and glory, than with infructuous mildness. These are no timeb
for milk-sop kings ! All men should be soldiers — and kings, most of all
men !"

" All men should be soldiers ?" echoed Culen half unoonsciously.

" Ay, master page. Though I thank you for your pains to save my
shoulder from the hard edge of this stone wall ; yet methinks I could
better like to see your good right arm strike a firm blow in Scotland's
cause, than benumb itself into a cushion for a lady's back, though the
back be mine own."

" And have I your ladyship's leave to seek service in the field 9"
asked Culen, his eyes sparkling at the thought of winning favor in hers,
" If my lord, your father, and yourself, sanction my leaving the oastla
of Moray, I ask no better fortune than the chance of showing my lady
that the arm has been nerved to achievement, not 'numbed to inaction,
by having had the honor to serve her for a cushion."

" Well said, Culen ;" said the lady Gruoch, looking at him with a
smile of approval ; " I will myself obtain my father's consent to your
quitting our inglorious castle of ease : to your exchanging this dull,
stagnant, slothful vegetation, for a life of action, of glory, honor, and re-
nown. Would my mother's wish had been accomplished ! Would I
were a man to go forth with you ! You should be my trusty squireij
and Grym, my faithful man-at-arms; — and so should the knight of

THE thane's daughter. 13d

Moray set forth to the field doughtily equipped 1 Would I had indeed
been born a man 1"

The lady Gruoch arose thoughtfully ; and quitted the ramparts,
that she might seek her father, and inform him of Culen's suit ; which,
strengthened by her own representation, could not fail of success, for
she was never refused a single point she desired to carry with her fond
old parent.

Culen watched lAie retiring form of his beautiful lady, and as it re-
ceded from his view, a shadow fell upon him ; for he remembered that
his desire to take arms, would involve his banishment from her pre-
sence, in which, till now, his existence had been spent But the thought
of her bright smile, when he had proclaimed his desire to become a sol-
dier, shed its light once more upon his spirit, and he eagerly entered
into consultation with Grym, how best he might carry out his desire of
winning advancement abroad ; with which he secretly hoped some day to
return home, that he might lay its trophies at the feet of his mistress.
A lurking, half-defined sense there was, that he should thus raise him-
self more nearly to her own level ; a successful soldier of fortune
approaching a poor thane's daughter less hopelessly, than a humble
page, — a retainer of her father's ; at any rate, he knew that to be a
soldier at all, was one step in her regard, and that sufficed to inspire
him with hope and courage for the present.

At first he thought of seeking service under this very Macbeth, the
" right valiant gentleman" of whom they had just been speaking ; but
Qrym told him, that he thought he could obtain (through means of one
of the monks whom he had formerly known, when a lad, at the nearest
abbey,) a recommendation to Banquo, the thane of Lochaber, a worthy
leader, and a renowned warrior ; who, if he would let Culen fight be-
neath his banners, his training as a soldier, and his subsequent success
in arms was secured. And thus it was concluded upon. And in a few
days, Culen. no longer a page, left the castle of Moray, to seek his for-
tune as a soldier. In parting with him, the gentle old Kenneth had
bestowed a kindly benison on him ; Grym had growled him some rough
but senpible advice ; and the lady Gruoch had given him her hand tc

134 THE thanf/s daughter.

kiss ; which favor he had knelt to receive, and which had done much tc
console him for the sacrifice he made in leaving her. No thought reach«
ed her of the emotion that filled his heart, as he knelt before her, and
vowed to win all his honors in the name of her who had sent him forth^
and to ascribe to her inspiration all the glor}' he trusted to achieve.
She was proud to behold the champion whom her ardour had animated,
but no surmise that his own passion, no less than her words, had been
the animating cause of his championship, crossed her iiind for an
instant.

For some time after Culen's departure, the castle of Moray seemed
to sink into more than the usual state of dullness and stagnation, oi
which its joung mistress had complained.

But one daj its inhabitants were thrown into a state of unwonted
excitement and interest, by the arrival of two strangers at the gates,
who entreated to speak with Kenneth, thane of Moray, and his fiEiir
daughter, the lady Gruoch.

One of these strangers was a Highlander, habited of course in the
costume of his mountain home ; the other, a young damsel, who was
closely shrouded in her tartan plaid, which she wore over her head and
shoulders ; but who, from the glimpse the attendants caught of her
countenance, as they ushered the strangers into the presence of their
lord and lady, they pronounced to be " bonnie beyond ordinar."

But no sooner had the lady Gruoch looked upon the strangers, than
she recognized in the man, the Highlander she had some years before
encountered in the wood. She was about to utter some exclamation ol
surprise, but she checked herself, and listened to what he was saying in
reply to a question her father had asked, as to what had brought them
to the castle.

The Highlander said that he was travelling in search of employment
for his only child, his daughter Doada ; that she played the harp passing
well ; that the monks at the neighbouring abbey had told him that she
would most likely find entertainment and favor at the castle of Moray
with the lady Gruoch, who probably loved music. That he would fain

THE thane's daughter. 135

have kept his child at home in his mountain hut, but that the nipping
of hard times had left no other alternative than that of employing her
talent, or stamng together. That he hoped that the lord of Moray and
his fair daughter would give Doada leave to let them hear her skill on
the instrument she bore beneath her plaid ; then signing to the damsel,
she threw back her tartan screen, and disclosing a face of great loveli
ness, amid a profusion of golden hair, she began to play.

The sounds she drew from the instrument were sweet and full ; but
when she accompanied them with her voice, pouring forth strains of pu-
rity, and beauty, and chanting songs full of variety, now of pathos, now
of animation, the venerable Kenneth listened entranced, and sat rapt
by the delicious music, with which the young damsel's harp and voice
filled the hall.

The lady Gruoch listened too, but it was musingly ; and as if her
thoughts were not entirely engrossed by the strains she heard. She
looked upon the beautiful face of the damsel, but now and then her
glance was directed towards the Elighlander, who leaned upon his staff,
and watched his daughter with eyes of affectionate admiration.

He raised them with gratitude towards the old thane, when he de-
clared that he had never heard anything like the charm of the damsePs
harping and singing, and that her music and her beauty were those of
an angel.

While her father was occupied with the Highlander and his daugh-
ter, the lady Gruoch had noted Grym enter the hall, who, with his fel*
lows, had crept in, to hear the stranger's music.

She beckoned the man-at-arms to her side, and by a glance indicat
ing the Highlander, she whispered : — ''• Is it not he ?"

" It is the same, sure enough," replied Grym. " I knew him again
the moment I cast my eyes on him, and I wondered, would your ladyship
do so too. Shall I bid him begone, my lady ? Do you dislike bis pros*
ence ?" added he.

" No, no ; I do not fear him now. I was a child then, and dreaded
every shadow, I suppose. I will speak to him ; I only wished to be
sure that my recolleetion served me aright."

186 THE thane's daughter.

Th€ lady Oruoch moved to rejoin her father ; who was still intent
upon Doada and her music. He had promised that she should remain
as a companion to his daughter at the castle of Moray, and delight them
with her marvellous skill, saying that he should be well pleased to add
to his retainers a damsel of such merit.

Her Highland father seemed gladdened by the promise, and by the
prospect of such a home was secured for his child. He only entreated
that she might be permitted to come and see her old mountain home
every few months or so, and rejoice the heart of her fond father wit^ tha
sight of her bonny face, and with the assurance that she was well and
happy. ^' That thought will keep me company, and serve to make the
solitary hut, over beyond the hills, blithe and cheery," said the High-
lander in conclusion ; ^^ and I can now return there with a light heart,
though alone. Bless thee, my child, bless thee, my Doada !"

His daughter clung to him, and he embraced her fervently. Then
repeating hid thanks to Kenneth for the protection he afforded, and bow-
ing lowly to the thane's daughter, the Highlander was turning to depart,
when the lady Gruoch looked him steadily in the face, and arrested
his steps by that look, as well as by saying : —

" The death you foretold, befell ; and now I would fain hear the
other weird you were about to read that morning. Speak !"

The Highlander passed his hand across his brow, muttering, as he
gazed at the lady Gruoch : —

" I remember now ! The castle of Moray ! Ay, there was death
there, then ! Somewhat eLse there was, I dimly saw, but cared not to
read, to one who had -offered help. My hour was then upon me. My
hour of darkness and of light. Darkness to the soul, light to the vision.
When my hour is upon me, I see more than is given to ordinary human
ken."

" And is not your hour upon you now ? Speak, old man ! Read my
weird now !" said lady Gruoch.

The Highlander still gazed upon her , but he shook his head, and
laid his finger upon his lip.

^How came it you were no longer in the wood, when assistanee

THE thane's daughter. 137

was sent to you? Who are you? What are you?" asked she hur-
riedly.

'' I am a poor Highlander, my lady. I had wandered across the
hills to these parts, on an errand to the abbey near here, where I knew
I should find help. I saw your ladyship, that morning, — I now recol-
lect,— in the wood, where I had set me down to rest. In the kindly im-
pulse of youth, you offered me aid, but when you withdrew, I knew not
that you had gone to seek it. and send it me. When you left the
spot, I arose and resumed my path to the abbey, where I found that I
sought, and returned forthwith to my mountain home, whence I have
never since strayed, till compelled to do so for my child's sake. I could
have borne want myself, but cannot look upon her starvation."

" She shall find a honle here," said lady Gruoch graciously ; " the
pleasure her melody gives to my father, would alone make her a wel-
come inmate to his daughter. She shall dwell with us."

" And you will let her father's eyes behold her occasionally ?" asked
the Highlander, after renewing his thanks.

" I will myself send her to see you, safely escorted ;" said Gruoch.
'* Meantime, among my maidens, she shall be nearest to my person, in
token of the favor in which her skill is held."

She turned to speak some words of encouragement to the timid
Doada ; and the Highlander, blessing heaven for the auspicious pros-
pects of his child, once more embraced her, bowed lowly, and with-
drew.

The presence of the fair young damsel, and her passing excellence
in song, served well to enliven the monotony of existence in the castle
of Moray ; and she soon became a universal favorite. Even with the
waiting-women, who shared her attendance upon the lady Gruoch, she
was looked upon with no envy or suspicion, when it was found that she
made no attempt to supersede them in the good graces of their mistress.
She was modest, retiring, and unassuming even to timidity ; and de-
voted herself almost wholly to entertaining the old thane's solitary
hours with her music. She seemed never to weary of singing and play-

188 THE thane's daughter.

ing to him, while the venerable Kenneth was equaJj unwearied in do*
riving pleasure from the exercise of her gift.

Oruoch seemed well-pleased that there should be this source of
gratification added to the few that existed for her quiet old father, and
treated the Highland girl with consideration for his sake ; else there
was little intercourse between the lady of the castle and her timid
handmaiden, Doada. To the lady Gruoch herself, the still-life of the
castle seemed as unbroken, dull, and irksome as ever.

However, soon there came tidings of an event that promised to sup-
ply food for curiosity and interest to all within the walls of the castle.

A horseman rode up to the gates, bringing a missive to the lord
of Moray from a former companion-in-arms. Sinel, thane of Glamis ;
who informed his old friend, that his son, iMacbeth, was abroad on a
martial expedition, which would take him through that part of the
country ; that his son, therefore, craved leave to call upon the venerable
friend of his father, and pay his respects to the lord of Moray, and to
his fair daughter, the lady Gruoch, of whose charms, fame had spread
report, even so far as to his castle of Inverness.

" Gladly indeed, shall I welcome the brave son of my brave old com
rade. And how far hence is thy lord, good fellow ?" said Kenneth to
the messenger. " When may we expect the approach of valiant Mac-
beth ?"

" My lord will be here to-night ;" replied the man. "I outrode big
company but a few hours. He sent me on to bring your lordship intel-
ligence of his arrival, with his father's letter "

The news spread of the expected approach of the renowned visitor ;
and all was anticipation among the inhabitants of the castle. Every
one desired to behold the illustrious chieftain, one of the first soldiers
of the age, a military hero, a noble of blood-royal, a cousin of the king
himself. Hasty preparations were made to receive the honored guest
with due hospitality ; and all that could be done in the small space of
time that intervened, was done, that a well-spread board and fitting
apartments might be prepared for the feasting and accommodation of
Macbeth and his company.

THE thane's daughter. 139

In those rude times, the bare necessaries of life — mere beef and
bread, were to be had in abundance, at a small cost, when no season of
dearth occurred ; and though they were but scantly cooked, and roughly
set forth, yet the appetites of men inured to hardships of the battle*
field, were not likely to be fastidious, any more than their limbs were
disdainful of repose found in ill-furnished chambers ; and thus, food and
a roof, such only as the old thane's resources could command, would be
no unwelcome hospitality to a warrior and his company of soldiers after
a day's march.

Macbeth arrives. The old thane receives him warmly, as a worthy
representative of Sinel, his father, whom Kenneth remembers a prodigy
of valour, when his own less daring spirit yet generously bade him take
pride in the deeds of his friend. The handsome warrior receives court-
eously the commendations of his father's friend, and adds farther greet-
ings to those contained in the letter. The lady Gruoch joins her wel-
come .to that of her parent ; and while the gracious words flow from her
lips, Macbeth looks upon her surpassing beauty, and his heart owns he
has never beheld charms of equal potency with those of the thane's
daughter. There is something in those azure eyes that compels and
enthrals his gaze ; their fascination is only rivalled by the brilliancy of
her complexion, by the lustre of her golden hair, and above all, by the
magic of a commanding presence, which asserts the claim of such a com-
bination of beauty to homage and admiration. Nothing unwilling, the
chieftain yields himself more and more to the spell ; he cannot withdraw
his gaze, nor does he desire so to do. He is content to submit his senses
to this new and intoxicating influence ; content also to find that his gaze
nowise seems to distress or oppress the object of his fixed regard. She
is animated, self-possessed, radiant in conscious charms, performing the
duties of hostess, and presiding at the festal supper-table with ease and
grace. Her retired life has induced no bashful embarrassment, no rustic
awkwardness ; she seems born a queen, and her seclusion from society
appears only to have allowed free field for the growth of her natural
refinement and elevation of demeanour. She converses with freedom,
discoyering intelligence and decision of opinion. Her bearing is ma*

140 THE THANES DAUGHTER.

jestio, yet affable ; lofty, yet courteous ; dignified, yet attraotiye. Her
eyes beam with spirit and fire, yet possess alluring beauty in their blue
depths ; the rich carnation of the lips has Toluptuous softness in its
pouting fullness ; and though there lurks cruelty and unrelenting in
those deeply indented comers, yet dimples, and seductive smiles play
around, and help to conceal the sinister inflexibility.

By degrees, he discovers yet a new charm amidst so much beauty.
He sees a something of answering admiration in the manner in which the
bright flashes of those azure eyes met his. The handsome person of the
chieftain, the ardour of his manner, the spirit of his converse, all coming
to confirm the impression which his previous reputation had created upon
her imagination, leads her to regard him with scarcely less admiration
than he does her ; and their mutual looks and discourse grow more
and more animated, and reveal more and more how each is struck and
enchanted with the other. The gentle remarks and kindly speeches of
the old thane fall almost totally disregarded, while the attention .of the
young people becomes every instant more exclusively devoted to each
other.

Suddenly the sound of music is heard. At a signal from the lord of
Moray, the Highland maiden has been sent for into the supper-hall, and
now strikes a few chords on her harp by way of a prelude to the song
he has requested.

" Doada will sing to us, my lord ;" said Kenneth to his guest. " Her
music is worthy your ear, I can assure you."

" What name did you say ? How called you the maiden ?** said
Macbeth, abruptly regarding her.

The damsel blushed, at the sudden gaze of one so illustrious, till the
blood flew over neck and brow, and her fair skin showed the suffusion so
apparently, that a lily seemed suddenly transformed to a rose.

Gruoch's face flashed scarlet too.

Kenneth repeated Doada's name to his guest ; and then bade her
play and sing one of his favorite airs.

The damsel obeyed. But though the strain was plaintively sweet,
the guest soon forgot to give it his attention, ii resuming his conTei^

THE thane's daughter. J 41

Bation with the lady Gruooh. They talked in a half-whisper out of de^
ferenoe to the old thane's love of music, but they did not share his entha-
siasm, scarcely affecting to note the song or the singer. Indeed, it was
evident that the fair hostess preferred engrossing his attention herself
and he appeared to pursue her inclination with no unwillingness.

But when the music came to a close, Kenneth canvassed applause
for his favorite Doada ; and he drew his guest's attention to her again
by asking if they did not possess minstrelsy in their poor castle of Moray
worthy even of royal hearing.

" Ay, by my faith ;" replied Macbeth. '' And the damsel is as fair as
she is gifted. I scarce ever beheld hair so beautiful. Golden locks such
as are found in the castle of Moray, are rather of heaven than of earth.
They are what we fancy beaming around angelic heads."

The chieftain's look rested again upon the lady Gruoch as he spoke ;
and the scarlet flush which had once more sprung up in her cheek, had
scarcely faded away, when he thus resumed his gaze, and found her in
heightened colour looking more bright, more beautiful, than ever.

Before the company retired for the night, Macbeth bade his aged host
farewell, saying that he and his retinue would in all probability have left
the castle before the old thane would be stirring. He asked his leave to
depart thus abruptly, as it behoved him to be at some miles' distance from
the castle of Moray before noon on the following day. When his host
expressed regret at parting with him so soon, the chieftain told him
that he had hopes of being able to return in a day or two, — it might be
on the very morrow of his departure ; and therefore, if he would let him
do so, he should return to the castle of Moray, and lengthen his visit to
his father's friend, and improve his own acquaintance with the venerable
thane and his daughter. This prospect was eagerly gieeted both by
Kenneth and the lady Gruoch, whose sanction had been included by a
beseeching glance in the leave which Macbeth had asked of her father
for this renewal of his visit. With mutual interest and liking on all
sides, they parted ; and in a short time, all within the castle seemed
slumber and repose.

Yet within the chamber of the lady Gruoch there was neither. Her

142 THE THANE'S DAUOHTER.

heart knew no peace, her frame no rest. Agitated as she had nerer
been before, she paced her room for many a long hour through the
night. It seemed as if in action alone she could meet and contend with
the busy tide of thoughts and emotions that pressed, and heaved, and
whelmed around her.

Paramount above all, was the image of Macbeth. His martial bear-
ing, his handsome person, his ardour of admiration for herself, all
claimed her woman's preference, and won him her regard, her indivi-
dual liking. His illustrious birth, his military renown, his distinguished
position, were so many accumulated appeals to her ambitious nature,
and fulfilled the highest requisitions of her aspiring fancy as to what
that man should be with whom she would desire to link her fate.

In every respect he embodied the ideal she had conceived of a hero
whom she could love, whom she could seek to win ; and this very hero
she dared to believe she already saw won, at her feet, at her disposal,
to accept, or to reject.

Was it indeed so ? Might she believe that he was as much enthralled
as his eyes had declared*? Might she believe that her beauty had suf-
ficed to secure so important a conquest? Was he indeed so surely won,
so entirely hers ?

And then came the thought that had flashed into scarlet witness upon
her cheek, when it had first crossed her mind, as she beheld the glance
he gave towards Doada, when he heard her name. Again she felt the
pang that darted athwart her heart, as she heard him praise the High-
land maiden's golden hair ; and though the praise was followed closely
by words that directed the compliment as much to herself— ^yet the
mere thought of sharing his admiration with another was not to be en*
dured, and she muttered with clenched teeth and hands : —

^ She shall go. She shall be here no longer to meet his eye when ha
returns. On the morrow of the day which is now dawning, he said
his return might be. Before this day's sun sets, she shall be &r on
her way to her mountain home. No minstrel girl, — ^be her name never
so soft, her hair never so bright, — shall come between me and my hope 1
She goes!"

THE thane's daughter. 14S

Vo sooner had Macbeth and his train departed, after an early morn-
ing meal, than the lady Oruoch told the Highland maiden, Doada, that
she intended to allow her to go and pay the visit to her father which
had been promised when he left her at the castle ; and that as well
nigh three months had elapsed since his departure, they would doubt-
less be happy to meet and spend some time together. She gave her
leave to remain for a stated period, adding many gracious words as
to the loss that the want of her music would prove to the lord of Moray
and herself, and bestowing upon her several useful and handsome pre-
sents to her father, together with some gifts and tokens of approbation
for herself.

The damsel blushed her gratitude and thanks ; but when the lady
Oruoch spoke of her immediate departure, Doada ventured timidly to
say that she feared nightfall would set in, ere she could reach the hut
among the mountains ; as, when her father and she had come hither,
they had quitted their home by day-break, and that it was late now to
set forth.

" But I have provided that you shall have safe escort ;" said her
mistress. " Grym is to accompany you, maiden ; and he will protect
you from all harm, be it by day or by night, and place you safely
within the arms of your father, with whom I wish you all happiness.
Farewell !"

The lady Oruoch paced the castle platform, watching the departure
of the Highland maid with the faithful man-at-arms, as their retreating
figures threaded the path which led by the shores of the lake, and
branched off upwards among the hills. 'As they diminished gradually,
and faded away in the blue distance. Oruoch felt her heart lighten of
the load which had pressed upon it, so long as the maiden remained in
the castle. Now she could give herself up to unmingled satisfaction
in looking forward to the return of Macbeth. Now no anxiety need
she feel, lest his eye, his attention should be withdrawn an instant from
herself; and she could indulge her fancy with picturing how exclusively
she might hope to enjoy his society, how best seek to win his regard

144 THE thane's daughter.

how most happily secure his love, and give him assuraDoe of her owa
At the thought; her heart swelled with a sense of triumph, and her ej«
dilated, as she raised it in proud exuU> .n skywards.

The sky was suddenly ov. oast. It had been a bright forenoon.
The opening year had somewhat advanced, and some symptoms of early
spring had smiled upon the landscape. But the breath of winter still
prevailed, and occasionally returned to resume its empire in all tyran-
nous severity.

The lady Gruoch had lingered on the ramparts to enjoy the clear
morning air. and to indulge the sense of relief that possessed her while
watching the departure of Doada ; but now, as she gazed into the sky,
she beheld the sullen veil that was drawn athwart the blue heavens, and
obscured all trace of that brightness which till then had irradiated the
face of nature.

She was sensible, too, of the increasing bitterness of the cold, now
that the sun had withdrawn his rays ; and with a shudder, partly of
chill, partly of misgiving, she drew her mantle more closely about her,
and prepared to quit the platform.

One more glance she threw northwards, in the direction of the hills.
A shrewd blast of wind swept from that quarter, and a moment or two
after, a few flakes of snow fluttered through the keen air; — ^white,
feathery, pure, subtle, light, insidious snow.

During the long hours of afternoon and eventide, the lady Chmooh
heard the murmurs of regret which her old father could not repress, for
the loss of Doada and her sweet music.

" Why was she sent away ?" he asked at first.

" My lady sent her to see her father ;" was the reply of his at-
tendants.

The old thane did not answer ; but sighed, and caressed the head ol
his favorite hound in silence.

When his daughter joined him, after quitting the ramparts, he re
peated his question to her.

Her reply was nearly the same as the one he had received before

THE thane's daughter. 145

'^ I sent her to visit her fkther in their mountain home : you know
it was 80 promised, when he left her with us.''

^ But why should she have gone to-day ? Besides, it is foul weather.
Is not that snow, I see yonder, through the oriel window ? She will
starve with cold, poor thing !"

" It was fine when they set forth. I sent Grym with her."

" But why send her to-day ?" reiterated the old thane, whom vexa-
tion at the loss of his wonted recreation, and uneasiLess for the safety
of the minstrel maiden, rendered unusually querulous.

" It was needful she should go ;" replied Gruoch in the peremptory
tone she knew was always sufficient to decide a question with her
father. ^^It is well-nigh three months since she has been with us, and
her Highland father will be wearying to see his child."

Kenneth submitted to the tone which he knew so well, and which
generally closed all points at issue between them. He merely sighed,
and resigned himself to his accustomed patting of the dogs' heads,*
seeming to take refuge in their mute tokens of sympathy and attach-
ment, and to find solace in their looks of dumb affection.

The lady Gruoch roused herself to attempt the entertainment of her
old parent, that she might supply to him as well as she could, the loss
of the music he so much missed ; and she began to speak to him of the
expected return of their guest, to extol his various accomplishments, to
dwell upon the manner in which his personal merits kept pace with
the reputation and renown he had acquired, and took pains to dis-
cover whether her father's sentiments of Macbeth's excellence agreed
with her own.

She soon found, by the interest he took in the theme, how entirely
the chieftain had won her father's regard, not only as the son of his old
companion-in-arms, but in his own individual capacity ; and so well
pleased did he seem with the subject, that while it was being discussed
with animation by them both, the old thane forgot to repeat his regrets
for the loss of his favorite Doada and her music.

With so facile, so gentle-spirited a father, what might not an affec-
tionate daughter have done to make his life one of happiness, instead

146 THE thane's dauohtbr

of one of monotonj, neglect, and almost solitude. — save for the society
of his dumb favorites, the hounds.

While with her father, in the hall, striving to amuse him, and at the
same time indulging her own train of thought by speaking upon the
theme which most engrossed it, the lady Gruoch had felt her animaflon
return, her exultation revive, her spirits restored to the proud and hope-
ful tone which they had assumed that morning as she watched the depart-
ure of Doada.

But when she bade her father good night, on qu.tting the hall, and
retired to her own apartment, the same sense of shuddering chill and
foreboding crept over her, and she made excuses to detain her attendant
women about her person somewhat later than usual.

^^ Make up the fire well upon the hearth, Eoda ; draw the logs toge-
ther, that the blaze may last ;" said she. ^' Have you made fast the door
which leads on to the platform, Lula ? The chamber seems unusually
cold. Draw the hangings close before the window. So ; you may leave
me. But let the door of the ante-room remain only slightly closed, that
I may call you, if need be."

When the women had withdrawn, the lady seated herself beside the
blaze, and strove to derive cheer from its influence. She sought to re-
assemble those bright thoughts of hope, of love, of ambition, which had
danced before her eyes, while dwelling upon the image of Macbeth.
She tried to recall his looks, his words, his ardent manner, with the
happy conviction they had engendered, and the joyful feelings they had
awakened. But nothing of joy or of happiness could she summon to
bear a part in her musings, to shed a glow on her spirits, and lighten
the gloom which made her feel the solitude of her chamber insup-
portable.

After a time, she stole lightly to the door of communication between
her own room and that where the attendant women slept. She push^
the half-closed door ; it yielded, and she could perceive that they were
already at rest, and all asleep. She revoked her thought of summoning
one of them, and drawing the door to again, she remained a moment or

THE thane's DAUOHTBR. 147

two, fixed in thought, in the centre of her apartment. The tapestry
that hung around the walls, shook and* heaved with the bleak gusts that
made their way into the chamber. The hangings round the mull ion win-
dow, though they were of heavy woollen arras, waved, rose, and sank with
the night- wind that forced itself through the crevices and rough stone-
work of the deep embrasure. By a sudden and seemingly irresistible
impulse, the lady Gruoch moved hastily across the room, and drawing
aside the curtain, gazed forth into the night.

The snow had continued falling fast and thick ever since she had
noted those few first flakes ; and now it lay in one wide sheet of white,
bespreading castle, hill, and valley. The glare of its surface distinctly
indicated the objects it shrouded, displaying and tracing that which it
covered. The ridges and ledges of the castle walls were clearly defined,
around and beneath, on all sides within view of the window ; and from
the foot of the building stretched away the valley, with the neighboring
wood and lake, towards the hills, alike sheeted with white. The window
overlooked the platform, which has been so often alluded to, and to
which there was access from this range of apartments through a small
door, opening from the lady Gruoch^s own chamber. For awhile she
gazed forth upon the blank desolation.

" If he should not come to-morrow," muttered she, " it will have been
needless. But he will come ; I know he will ; and whatever befall, she
must not be here. I would have her away ; why then should I repent
that she is away ? The fact crowns my desire, and all is as it should be."

She closed the curtain, and flung herself but half undressed on the
bed. The red embers of the dying fire cast a lurid and a fitful light through
the apartment. The lady Gruoch closed her eyes and slept ; but her
sleep brought no peace, her slumber no repose, her dormant thoughts no
rest. Her frame was for a time extended on the couch, her limbs lay
stretched in inaction, but the mind was still tossing to and fro in a sea of
agitation. The soul was wakefully fighting, while the body lay drowsed
and prostrate ; but presently the struggle of the soul communicated itself
to the body, and compelled that to act in concert with the strong con-
tention maintained within. The waking soul roused the sleeping body

148 THE thane's DAUGHTSa.

and constrained it. still sleeping as it was, to perform the deeds of wak*
ing. The volition of the spirit made the passive body involuntarily
fulfil its promptings, and move mechanically obedient to interior impulse.
Consciousness and unconsciousness had equal possession of her frame,
and dictated alike its motion. Asleep in body, yet awake in spirit, the
form of the lady Gruoch arose from the bed, and, traversing the apart-
ment, halted near the door, which led from her room on to the castle
platform. Some idea of recalling Doada, of concealing her within the
castle from the sight of Macbeth, instead of sending her forth into the
snow-storm, had taken possession of her soul, and in the strength of its
impress, this thought now led her into the open air in the dead of the
night, with her thinly-clad slumbering body, and her fighting spirit
The door was unbarred, unclosed, and the lady stepped forth.

" You are cold, Doada — come back. You shall not perish ;" -she
muttered. " Abide in this retired chamber — it is but for awhile — ^till
he is gone. Do as I bid you, maiden, I will have it so ! How cold you
are ! Come in, I tell you ! The snow will starve you — ^and my father
will be grieved ! Cold — white — dead !"

The lady Gruoch had crossed the platform ; and as she concluded
her muttered words, she laid her hand on the stone wall that skirted the
rampart. The sharp cold of its touch had startled her senses into oon-
sciousness, and she awoke to find herself wandering ^alone in the incle-
ment air at dead of night, half clothed, half asleep, and shivering with
cold and awe. She shrank back to her chamber, hastily refastened the
door, cowered beneath the bed-clothes, and summoned the attendants to
xenew the fire, and watch beside her couch till morning.

With the light of day her courage returned. Her spirits revived,
and she could teach herself to look back upon the tumult of the past
night unmoved. She persuaded herself that Doada was safe, and that
she had permitted an exaggerated idea to alarm her, that any danger
could exist for the maiden while under the protection of Grym. She
remembered that Macbeth was possibly to return that day to the castle,
and that it behoved her to meet him with smiles and a serene brow, on*

THB thane's daughter. 149

ruffled by traces of the emotions of the past night. She struggled to
roooyer her tranquillity, to smooth her haggard looks, and to resume the
oharm and majesty of her native mien.

The thought of his near approach, and of the probable result of his
return, helped to wreathe her lip with smiles, give a glow to her cheek,
and light her eyes with a glance of fire ; and by the hour when the chief
and his retinue reached the castle of Moray, its mistress shone forth with
all her accustomed radiance of beauty.

After an interchange of courtesy with the old thane, her father,
Macbeth soon contrived to lead the lady Gruoch apart, and renew the
animated strain of conversation in which they had loth found so much
pleasure the first evening they had met.

They leaned, talking together, in the recess of the oriel window of
the hall ; and while the old thane noted them as they stood a little apart
thus, he thought how handsome they both looked, how happy they seemed,
how accordant their beauty and bearing, and how well fitted for each
other they were ; and then the thought ensued, of how goodly-assorted
a couple his daughter and the son of his friend would make in marriage.

As the father mused thus, Macbeth allowed the ardour of his man-
ner to assume less and less reserve, and the warmth of his admiration to
be less and less concealed ; and at length his words and looks were so
unequivocal, that the lady Oruoch could entertain no doubt of the con-
quest she had gained.

Something he had said in allusion to the lustre of her charms, and in
avowal of the power they had exercised over his hitherto untouched
heart, entreating her permission to speak of his passion to her &ther ; to
which she had gaily replied that she would hear him plead farther herself,
before she sanctioned his carrying his suit to any other umpire of his
fate.

^' But I own no eloquence in speech, lady," said he. " I am a rough
soldier ; my arguments have hitherto been deeds not words, and I have
learned no arts of peace in the battle-field. I can wield a claymore, but
have no skill in poesy or song, or in aught of such things that may help
a knight to win fair lady. The belief that I behold that in you which

150 THB thane's daughter.

disdains such silken accomplishments, it is, which gives me courago to
sue in behalf of the rough soldier ; at the same time that it ought per-
haps to bid me despair of ever calling such superiority in mind and
Deaaty mine own."

" I care little for poesy and song, it is true ;" said GruocL

'* By the way, where is the minstrel maiden, that sang to us the other
evening, I do not see her to-day?"

^' Do you desire to see her ?" asked the lady abruptly, with a sudden
flash of her deep blue eyes.

" Not I ;" replied the chieftain ; " I only felt an interest in her for
the sake of my mother, whose name she bears ; and for the sake of one,"
he added, lowering his voice to a tone of passionate admiration, ^'' whose
golden hair is even brighter than hers, which attracted my regard for an
instant as I compared it in thought, though unjustly, as I now find by
closer inspection, to these lustrous trcises that transcend all others."

As the handsome chieftain hung over her, raising one of the golden
curls gallantly to his lips as he spoke, and thus, by a few simple words,
explained the origin of the passing interest he had evinced for the High-
land maid, the lady Gruoch looked forth from the oriel window amid the
snow-tracks and frozen distance of the drear wintry landscape, and a
shadow of regret clouded her brow, for having so hastily sent the dam-
sel forth. But the cloud was transient ; the shade passed fronr her
thought, as she turned beaming and gracious to the suitor at her side.

And soon, no doubt of mutual preference remained to mar the joy
of either Macbeth or the lady Gruoch. She found that the chieftain
thought but of her ; he discovered that he had succeeded in winning her
regard. Their attachment was avowed to her father ; and it was agreed
that Macbeth should but return to Inverness to impart to his own father
his successful suit ; and that as soon as preparation could be made to
receive his bride, he should return to the castle of Moray to claim her,
and to celebrate his nuptials, that he might carry her to her new homo

The lady Gruoch had scarcely bidden farewell to her new-trothed
lord, when Grym returned. He entered the court-yard of the oastle, af

THE thane's daughter. 151

ihe was retiring from it, on her way to her own apartment. There wai
that in the face of the man-at-arms, beside its usual ugliness, — more
ghastly than its wonted look, that arrested her steps, and made her
pause to hear what he might have to say.

'^ I performed your bidding. Madam ;" said he. " I took her to her
home."

" Well done, good Grym ; faithful to thy trust ;" replied his lady.
^ You placed the maid within her father's arms. 'Tis well."

" I did, Madam ; but "

The man-at-arms faltered ; there was that in his eye and Toice that
belied his rough exterior.

The lady cast a searching look upon his face. She read a terrible
meaning there ; but she said with her firm steady voice : — ^'^ You did?
'Tis enough ; thanks, good Grym." Then staying to hear no more, she
resumed her way to her own apartments.

But not so summary was the inquiry of the old thane with regard to
the disappearance of his favorite Doada. He questioned Grym closely
concerning the incidents of their journey ; and from the sparing curt
speech of the man-at-arms he at length gathered the particulars of her fate.

On the afternoon of their departure from the castle of Moray, they
had not reached far among the uplands that stretched away from the
shores of the lake, when they were overtaken with the snow, which at
first fell lightly and scantily, then thicker and faster, and at length pro-
fusely and incessantly.

At first, Grym would have persuaded the maiden to return, and
defer her journey to the hills until a fairer season. But by this time the
thought of shortly beholding her father, joined to that of having to en-
counter the stern cold looks of the lady Gruoch, should she return
when bidden forth by her, gained sufficient empire over the Highland
girl to urge her to proceed. Soon, it became as difficult to make their
way back, as to continue on ; and Doada, her spirits rising with the pros-
pect of approaching each step they took, more nearly to her homC;
cheerily toiled upwards and onwards with the clastic happy step of hope^
«nd chatted with the light heart of youth and anticipation.

152 THE THAM:.S DAUGHTBR.

'' It 'Will be such a gay sarprise for my dear father !'' said she. " He
little thinks every moment is bringing his child closer to his anmi
And he loves me so dearly, good Grym. You don't know what a kind
father he is. He never would have parted with his Doada, bat that he
eoold not bear to see Hunger and Death each day approach nearer and
more near to our threshold to snatch his child from him. And now she
returns, to carry him joy, and comfort, and wealth. See, good Grym,
what my lady has given me for him. My lady may seem cold and
grand, and awful to look at, or to speak to ; — nay, when I am in her
presence, I scarce like to raise my eyes to hers, and tremble like a leaf,
simpleton that I am, when I have to carry any message to her, — ^yet she
18 as kind as she is handsome. She must be, to think of sending these
to my father."

" You are sure you know your way ?" said Grym abruptly.

'^ Of course I do. Straight on ; we can't miss it. This is the path
we are in, — skirting these rocks," answered the maiden.

^ Yes, but the snow sets deeper and deeper ; the track of the path
shows less and less," said Grym.

^ And it is getting dark ;" said Doada, looking up ; " the night is
coming on. But I know my way— oh yes, I know my way sorely.
There is the stuiftcd thorn ; farther on wo come to the black cavern ;
then the deep pool in the hollow ; and after that the clump of firs on
the hill-side— beyond that, the eagle's glen ; and then it is but a little
way up farther to our hut by the bum-side. The bonny burn springs
up close at hand, near to our door — and it's merry to watch its leap, and
dance, and frolic, and bound away over rock and fell, in a bright spring
day. If it's not frozen over by to-morrow morn, you shall have a cup
of its sparkling waters, Grym, and maybe something stronger, to tem-
per it into warmth and comfort after this cold night. How bitter it is I
and how keen the wind whistles ! Sharp from the North I But no
matter. Northward lies home — and home warms the heart full well i"

Long after this, the girl strove to maintain her cheery tone, and hei
hopeful step. But the darkness crept on and on ; the snow fell thickei
and thicker ; the night-wind blew, piercing them through and through :

THE thane's daughter. 15|

nhe path was obscured, and the white glare on all around served but ill
to trace even well-known objects to eyes that began to droop and drowse
beneath the iufiuence of the intense cold and growing fatigue.

Yet still she struggled onwards, now wavering and uncertain in her
course, now more assured, when some familiar object was recognized as
marking the path they ought to take ; now she would lag dispirited and
doubtful, now again endeavour to resume her hopeful tone and her as-
sured step. Several times they wandei\:d from the track, which with
much difficulty was regained, and still the night hours crept on, and
still the girl staggered blindly forwards. By this time, Grym had as-
sumed the task of guide, trying to trace the objects Doada had named
as marking the course they were to pursue ; and by this time, it was he
who maintained the cheerful tone of comforter, endeavouring to inspirit
and encourage the weary girl. But her limbs dragged more and more
heavily along ; her slight frame clung even more helplessly against the
side of the huge man-at-arms ; her head flagged, as a flower snapped in
its stem ; and her senses yielded to the lethargy that pressed its sullen
weight upon body and spirit alike. ^^ Let me rest, good Grym ; let me
rest here for a few minutes ;" she murmured, " I shall be able to go on
better afterwards, if you let me rest a little."

Grym attempted to rouse her, telling her that the dawn would soon
break, — that they could not now be far from the hut, — that if she could
but hold on for a short time yet, they would soon reach home where she
might fully rest. But the imperative summons was not to be with-
stood : — ^^ I cannot, good Grym ; let me rest here, — I shall rise refreshed.
— and then we will go to my father." And with this, the maiden sank
down, totally overpowered, in a stupor of frozen slumber

Her rough-seeming companion screened her as well as he could, in
the craggy nook where she had dropped ; drawing her tartan plaid
closely round her and adding his own, which he took off for the pur-
pose, to shelter her as well as might be from the falling snow, and
cutting wind. Then, carefully marking the spot, he left her thui
couched, while he endeavoured to find his way on to the hut, to fetob
help.

154 THE thane's daughter.

But in darkness, and ignorance of the track, he only wandeied
farther and farther from the right direction ; and he was compelled to
return to the nook in the glen, after a fruitless search, determining to
await here the dawn of day, which he thought could not be far distant.

With the first glimmer of light, he renewed his attempt to discover
their way ; and found that thej were, in fact, within sight, — not hearing
(for the frost had arrested its flow, and smitten it into silence) of the
bum or brook which Doada had described as having its source near to
the mountain hut of her father. Cheered by this token that they were
closer to their journey's end than he had dared to hope, Grym endea-
voured gently to arouse the Highland maiden. But no efforts of his
could awaken her. The man-at-arms was startled, as he raised the
tartan screen from the white still face, and the stricken form that lay
there, but he would not allow to himself that what he looked upon was
death. He would not listen for her breathing, but held his head erect,
apart, as if determined not to ascertain what he would not allow himself
to doubt. " The father will know best what will restore the lassie,"
he muttered, as he raised her tenderly in his arms ; '^ let me but find
him."

And he strode on with his burthen, which was scarcely such to his
brawny strength, until he came to the door of the shieling, or hut.

The door was barely fastened ; with one stroke of his foot, the man-
at-arms made it yield, and he entered, bearing Doada into her native
mountain home.

On the hearth stood the Highlander. Grym went up to him, and
placed the daughter within the father's arms. In a few words the events
of the past day and night were explained ; the departure from the castle ;
the snow-storm ; the sleep ; the home-return ; the hope that a father's
embrace would restore warmth and life.

But one glance of the father's eye sufficed. It revealed to him the
fatal truth. It told him that his child, whom he had left but a few short
months since blooming, well, and happy, was returned tc him, inanimate,
cold, dead ! He received within his arms, in lieu of his living daughter
a frozen corse I

:^Jka.

THE thane's daughter. 15&

The lady Oruoch reached her own chamber. Thence, she stepped
oat upon the platform ; the freedom of the open air braced and con-
firmed her mood of thought. She paced to and fro for awhile, and reso-
lutely shunned the remembrance of Grym's face, which seemed to su^
gest more than she oared to know. And thus she mused.

'^ The girl is gone. She is out of my path. If she cross it no more
— the better. Ten such minions removed whence they might breed
mischief — what matters it how they be removed ? I im not one to abide
the ire of an irritated imagination. It is but brainsickness to consider
too deeply of things that are past and done ; a disease of thought to
ponder on the means which have already helped us to our wish. I have
mine in her removal ; the sum of her image shall henceforth be that
to me."

As the lady Gruoch turned in her walk, at one end of the platform,
she beheld at a few paces from her, the Highlander, standing imme-
diately in her path.

^^ How camest thou hither, good man ?" she asked ; surprised to see
one so suddenly and so near, whom she had thought at a distance.
" How found you this part of the castJe ? What has brought you to
me?"

^^ I am come to read thee thy weird at last !" said the Highlander.
*' When first I looked upon thee, I beheld a crown spanning the fair
young brow — but I beheld it through a red mist, and would not reveal
the fearful secret to one who proffered aid "

*'• A crown ? — ^a crown, said'st thou ?" exclaimed the lady.

" Ay, a crown, a royal crown — the golden badge of sovereignty ! I
would not then foretell so dread, so fatal a vision. But thou hast sent
me my child through the snow-storm, and I read thee thy weird through
the red mist. A crown is thy weird ; the red mist is blood !"

**What matters, so that the weird be a crown!" cried the lady
Gruoch. ^^Methinks to gain that, I could stem torrents of blood;
scarcely heeding though some of my own were shed to mingle with the
stream."

'' Thine own ?" echoed the Highlander, with a scoffing laugh ; '' That
were too gentle a sentence."

156 THB thane's daughter.

'' What meanest thou 7 Speak farther I'' The lad j advanced, as she
spoke, towards the spot where the figure of the Highlander stood with
folded arms and derisive lips. " Speak, man 1" she continued. ^ TcU
me thy knowledge. I will have it !''

In her eagerness, she still advanced, and would have laid her hand
upon the folded arms. She touched no suhstance. She saw the mock-
ing features, and beheld distinctly the chequered colors of the tartan
plaid in which his figure was enveloped, — but she felt nothing. No tan-
gible matter met her grasp, and with horror and awe unspeakable she
recoiled ; — then plunging desperately forward, she passed through the
vivid shadow as if it had been a rainbow !

An instant — and the whole thing had vanished ; and when, some
time after, her women sought their mistress, they found her extended on
the ground, senseless.

Messengers bring tidings of Macbeth. They bear a letter lo the
lady Gruoch, in which the chieftain tells her that the country is infested
with a scum of Gallowglasses, disaffected rebels, and turbulent maraud-
ing Kernes ; against whom he is employed, seeking to quell and exter-
minate them from the land. That this duty calls him to the field, and
detains him from the hope with which he left her, of preparing all things
at the castle of Inverness for the reception of his bride. He adds, that
this active service in which he is engaged, not only interferes thus with
the fulfilment of his own wishes, but it likewise employs all his available
men, so that he fears he shall scarce be able to send messengers to her
BO frequently as he desires ; but he concludes by beseeching her to be-
lieve.him, through all lets to their continued intercourse, to be her true
and faithful knight, devoted to her beauty solely, in the hope of speedily
calling it his own for ever.

Upon this letter, and the attachment it breathes, the lady Gruoch
lives for awhile. But soon her thirst for farther tidings of her betrothed
lord rises to a feverish longing, which must be satisfied.

She resolves to send Grym to the camp of Macbeth ; though she
Knows the remainder of the men-at-arms who will then be left at the

THE THANEfs IiAUGHTBR. 157

eastle of Moray will afford but insufficient protection for her old fSather
and herself, in oas3 of any hostile attempt to invade their quiet from
the insurgent marauders. For the faithful and experienced soldier,
Ghrjm, is a host in himself ; and now, for the first time since his depar-
ture, Culen is thought of with esteem and regret. But the anxiety to
obtain news of Macbeth is paramount, and the lady Gruooh dispatches
Grym.

During his absence, the inhabitants of the castle hear frequent ru-
mours of parties of wandering Kernes, who demolish crops, spoil hus-
bandry, oppress the neighbouring poor, and commit other depredations
in the vicinity ; but no actual hostility threatens the thane of Moray's
own possessions.

Grym has been gone long enough to warrant expectation of ^is
return. The lady Gruoch begins to look impatiently for it, and to tax
him, in thought, with strange lack of zeal in her service, when suddenly
there is an unwonted stir in the court-yard of the castle. The port-
cullis has been raised ; an armed horseman has been admitted across
the drawbridge, who leads his steed by the bridle through the gates ;
the charger bears a wounded man upon his back, who is supported in
the saddle by the armed knight that walks by his side, leading the
horse.

In the armed knight, who wears his visor raised, the men-at-arms of
the castle of Moray have recognized their former companion, Culen ; in
the wounded man, they have beheld their fellow-retainer, Grym.

The lifting their comrade from the horse's back, the placing him
upon a heap of plaids hastily spread upon the ground for his reception,
the murmured expressions of wonder, sympathy, and inquiry from the
other men-at-arms, all crowding around Grym, and endeavouring to assist
and relieve him, caused the unusual stir in the court-yard which attracted
the attention of the lady Gruoch, as she sat in the hall, and which
brought her forth to see who the wounded man might be.

•' It's Grym, our Grym, madam," whispered the men, as they made
way for their lady to come near. ^^ He is wounded ; and it seems n>or
tally. For he stirs not ; and speaks not."

58 THE thane's daughter.

^ Orym ! mj faithful Orym I" exclaimed the ladj Oruooh, as she
approached, and bent towards the bleeding soldier. ^ What, rouse thee,
man ; art thou indeed so sorely hurt ?" The dying man raised his eyes
jy an effort. '* That's well ; cheerly, good Grym. And what news, my
trusty Orym? Hast thou the packet? Has thou no letter for me?"
Hhe added.

There was a yisible struggle. The faithful man-at-arms strove to
speak ; the blood gushed from his lips instead of words ; and he could
only faintly attempt to lift his hand towards the breast of his buff doub-
let. The lady at a glance understood the movement, and eagerly with-
drew the desired packet from the place he had indicated, to bring
which to her in safety he had forfeited his life-blood. Some of this
same life-blood soiled the fair hands that were searching the bosom of
the dying servitor for that which he had died to preserve for her.

^ Faithful unto death !" she cried, as she transferred the precious
packet from his bosom to her own. ^^ But must thou indeed die, my
faithful Grypi ? Can no leech save thee ? Half my possessions I would
gladly give to him who might restore thee to life, to thy mistress. Who
may I ever hope to attach to me, as thou hast been devoted to me ? De-
voted unto death ; my faithful Orym !"

The dying man's eyes looked fondly at her as she uttered these ex-
pressions of regret at his loss. To him they conveyed no particle of
the self-consideration that was betrayed in every word. To his partial
affection they were all he could have desired in requital of the life de-
voted to her service, — of the death incurred in her behalf His face
wore the satisfied look that an indulgent parent might have oast upon a
favorite child, in whom he can perceive no fault, and who satisfies aU
that his yearning love could wish.

He expired with the belief that his mistress held him as dearly-
valued, as sufficed to reward him to the utmost for all he had done,-^
and he died contented, proud, happy in the conviction of her regard.

The lady Oruoch looked upon the uncouth visage of the dead man
with sincere (because selfish) regret. Then she withdrew from his side,
that the attendants might remove the body of their comrade ; and shu

THB thane's daughter. 159

heayed one deep sigh, while a voice near her said * — ^'' I could find it in
XDj heart to envy Orym, to be so mourned !"

The lady turned to look upon him who spoke ; and she then per
ceived, for the first time, that the armed figure beside her was Culen.
But Culen so changed in bulk and stature — so altered in look and
bearing ; no wonder she failed to recognize him, while she scarcely noted
his presence, during the absorbing scene that had just occurred.

The slight figure of the youth she once knew had now acquired both
breadth and height His wide chest and shoulders displayed stalwart
proportions beneath his cuirass and breast-plate of burnished steel. His
handsome features showed manlier, and bore a more confirmed expres-
sion beneath the visor and head-piece of his helm. The light flaxen
curls which had formerly been allowed to revel in luxuriance around the
page's countenance, and had given it an effeminate beauty, were now
close-trimmed and shorn, and showed little or none beside the beard and
moustache that gave additional vigour to the knightly face.

" It is to your prowess I owe the rescue of my faithful Grym, I
doubt not, sir knight ;" said the lady Gruoch. '^ It is to you I owe the
sad pleasure of witnessing his last moments, and mourning the loss of
his trusty worth, while I received the last pledge of his devotion, and
acknowledged it with thanks and approval that consoled him in death.
Tell me how it was that you came to his aid."

" I was on my way to the castle through yonder wood ;" replied
Culen, ^' when hearing the noise of an affray, I pricked my horse for-
ward, and found Orym hard pressed by numbers. He was surrounded
by a party of Kernes, with whom he was fighting desperately, spite of
their superior force. I rushed to his aid ; but it was too late. The
villains fled at my approach, but they had wounded Grym so severely,
that he could but reach the castle in time to render his breath at the
feet of his lady. Happy at least in that one circumstance of his fate."

'* Fulfilment of purpose is the great end of life ;" said the lady
thoughtfully, placing her crimson smirched hand upon the letter within
her bosom. ^^ And Grym fulfilled his ; worthily, faithfully!"

^ And you have fulfilled yours, sir Culen ;" resumed she after a

160 THE thane's daughter.

pause. ^^ I see you have won your spurs ; you have achieved knighi
hood ; you have gained prowess in arms Let me see the device you
have adopted for your shield ;" said she, raising the buckler to inspect
the emblazonment and motto which it bore. They were, a silken
cushion turning back the point of an arrow aimed against it, with the
words " ex otio repugnantiaV

The allusion was too pointed to be forgotten. The smile of the
lady Gruoch showed that she remembered the incident, and that she
appreciated the homage to her will indicated in the device he had
chosen.

" The arm that you redeemed from a service of luxurious ease," said
Culen, elated by her smile, '' has learned strength, and the power of re-
sistance ; only too proud if it may return to devote its allegiance in the
same behalf. Use the power, as you formerly deigned to avail yourself
of the ease, afforded by the arm Let me still serve my lady, but as her
knight now, — not as her page "

" A trusty squire of dames sir Culen will ever be, I doubt not,"
replied Gruoch. " But let him not think I esteem his companionship
lightly, when I enlist it henceforth in behalf of my father rather than
myself I trust to you, good Culen, to comfort him, and be to him as a
son, when his daughter leaves him. Meanwhile receive my earnest
thanks for your valorous assistance to my lost Grym."

The lady turned to quit the court-yard as she spoke ; and in the act
of retiring, her hand was once more raised to her bosom, to clutch the
secured letter.

" When his daughter leaves him !" unconsciously repeated Culen
half aloud, in echo of those words of hers which had so perplexed
him.

" Ay, master Culen," replied one of the retainers, who, returning to
the spot, happened to overhear him. " Have you boen abroad in the
world, and have not heard that our young lady is to wed the valiant
Macbeth ? Why, that was the letter of her betrothed husband, that
she seized so eagerly from Grym's bloody doublet. A lady*s im-
patience regards not bedabbling its dainty fingers, when a lover'i

THE thane's daughter. 161

letter is in view, I waiTant me ; and yet I doubt if the omen be
canny."

Culen remained an instant in mute despair at what he had heard,
confiimed by that which he had seen. Then, exclaiming : — " Fare-
well ambition, fame, hope, life itself! " he flung himself into the saddle,
turned his steed's head from the court-yard, urged the horse across the
drawbridge, and galloped full speed away from the castle of Moray
for ever.

The letter from Macbeth brought welcome tidings indeed. His active
measures against the insurgents had been effectual in dispersing them,
and he was actually about to quit the field for Inverness when he wrote.
Very shortly after, he looked to set forth for the castle of Moray ; and
by the time that the letter reached the hands of the lady Gruoch, she
might daily expect his approach.

The chieftain and his retinue arrive. The venerable thane greets
the betrothed husband of his daughter with aflfectionate welcome. That
which the lady Gruoch extends to her expected lord is no less warm.
Proudly, exultingly, she prepares to unite herself with this noble war-
rior, this king-descended hero. A new existence is opening for her ;
a life of hope, of glory, of ambition — of ambition satisfied, in the martial
successes he has already achieved ; of ambition expectant, in the rank
and royal favour he may still attain. A life of hope, glory, and am-
bition, to be shared in acquirement and fulfilment with the man of her
preference. One with whom she may feel alike in ardour, activity of
spirit, and daring aspiration ; one with whom she may happily reap the
fruition of their joint exertion and hopo.

In her, Macbeth beholds imperial beauty. In her there is that which
at once captivates his senses, and commands his admiration and esteem.
There is a plenitude of feminine charm in the delicate features and figure
that satisfies his inclination for that which is in contrast with his own
manhood of strength and vigorous proportion ; while in the marked
decision, self-possessed manner, and confirmed opinion, that distinguish
her character, thore is that which he feels supplies well the defects w

162 THE THANE'S DAUGHTER.

his own natur3 L^ which he is perhaps half conscious. He sees in hei
that which will spur his ambition, invigorate his will, give constancy and
energy to his purposes, steadiness to his aims, firmness, solidity, and cod
sistency to all his views, enabling him to pursue them to a successful
issue. He sees precisely the qualities in her which will best give stabi*
lity to those points in his own character which most need fortifying.
His faith in her excellence is entire ; his subjugation to her charms is
complete ; but it is with no unwillingness that he yields to the empire
she exercises over his fancy. He is proud to call such beauty his own ;
proud to submit himself to its influence ; proud to share with her his
hopes, his life, — to make her the partner of his greatness. Proud were
they of and in each other ; and joyfully did they link their lives in one,
accepting a joint fate from that time forth.

The nuptial ceremony was performed. The bridal train left the
castle-chapel. The horses ready caparisoned for the journey, trampled
and champed their bits in the court-yard ; and the cavalcade awaited
but the bride and bridegroom, who were to join them to proceed at once
to the castle of Inverness.

The bridegroom led his bride to the hall, where they had left her
&ther, that she might receive his blessing as a new-made wife, ere she
quitted the paternal roof There sat the old thane, Kenneth, in his
accustomed seat by the hearth. He was leaning back ; his eyes were
shut : while the tears crept from beneath the closed lids, and coursed
down the aged cheeks ; his hand rested on the head of one of his favor-
ite hounds, that had laid its muzzle on the arm of the chair, and kept
snuffing and whining uneasily, as it fixed its eyes upon its master's
sorrowing face.

His daughter knelt at her father's feet, and spoke some words of
comfort in her own calm and self-possessed way.

Her husband joined his expressions of kindliness to hers. The gen-
tle old man roused himself feebly, blessed them both, and bade them
believe that his sadness at parting with them was outweighed by hia
happiness in having thus assured that of his daughter. Once again he
blessed them ; and struggled to utter the word ^ farewell !"

THE thane's dauohtes. 163

Ladj Macbeth arose-— reyerentlj smoothed the snow-white hairs on
either side of the furrowed cheeks — ^kissed the venerable forehead— ex-
claimed : — " Farewell, my father !" Then, turning to her husband, she
said firmly : — ^' I am ready, my lord I Lead me forth. I am yours
now."

The existence of the newly-married chieftain and his lady, in their
castle of Invemes/j, fulfilled the anticipations which the prospect of their
union had excited in each. They found their mutual satisfaction as
ample and complete as they had hoped. In all her husband's pursuits,
schemes, and views, lady Macbeth demonstrated an eager and intelligent
participation.

In his wife's dominant beauty, Macbeth's passionate admiration fourd
full content ; whilst in her high-reaching undaunted spirit his own felt
support, encouragement, incitement, strength. His natural valour seemed
to gain fresh impetus ; his bravery new vigour ; his deeds additional
daring, with such an incentive by his side to urge him to exertion, and
with so lustrous an object to gratify by his triumphs.

Achievement followed achievement ; promotion ensued to promotion ;
fresh honors and renewed instances of royal favor were heaped upon the
chieftain, near to his sovereign, both by blood and by ties of affection^
For the meek-spirited Duncan loved to rely upon the sterner counsels
and more active measures suggested by his kinsman, for escape from-
public censure, which not unfrequently accused him of feebleness and
slothfulness in the administration of justice.

Negligence in the due punishment of offenders ; connivance at mi»>
rule among the civic rulers, and at contumacy among the ruled ; a gen&>
ral want of strictness, and a perilous lenity ; all combined to make king
Duncan's mild sway regarded rather as weakness, than as paternal indul-
gence. It encouraged faction and insubordination, and offended those
who sought protection from order and judicious government. To pre-
serve peace for the peaceful, and to secure safety from the turbulent,
the services of Macbeth were put in constant requisition by his roya)
master.

164 THE thane's daughter.

To his kinsman, the favorite general, the king looked for aid and
support in every emergency of sedition and insurrection ; Macbeth's
tactics and rigour of discipline rendering him no less valuable as a states-
man, in the cabinet, than his military skill and personal courage made
him all-powerful in the field.

To the extended influence which accrued to him from his large share
of royal favor, was added increase of rank ; for, not long after his mar-
riage, Macbeth, by the death of his father, Sinel, became thane of
01am is.

These rapid and accumulated circumstances in the rise of Macbetb's
fortunes and position, made the long-hoarded secret hope of his own ano
wife's ambition assume a palpable form ; it presented itself no longer as
a distant improbability— only just barely posible. Macbeth could not
but remember that his own mother was no less nearly descended from
the late king, than she through whom the reigning monarch derived his
royal seat. They had been sisters ; and though the son of the elder
now ruled in Scotland, yet should he cease to live, his cousin Macbeth,
from kindred, as well as from popular favor, stood nearest in probable
succession to the throne. It is true that Duncan had sons — ^but they
were quite young ; and until the elder should have been created Prince
of Cumberland, he was not the royal heir-apparent. Meanwhile, each
fresh step in Macbcth*s rank and power, raised him still more securely
within grasp of the secret object of his wishes ; and as each grade be-
came his. he and his wife to themselves exulted. She could not but
sometimes allow her fancy to muse on that predicted circumstance in
her fate, which afforded confirmation of all that now seemed ripening to
a fulfilment — a reality.

To inherit their present growing dignities, — and that crowning one
which might be in store for them, a son was born to them ; and Macbeth
beheld the beauty of his mother, while she beheld the representative of
his father's honors, in the infant Cormac, who thus enhanced the joy of
both parents.

A secret faction arose. A party of the insurgents had the hardihood
to plan an attack upon the castle of Macbeth, thinking the thane him'

THE thane's daughter. 165

lelf to be sbsent on state affairs. But he bad returned suddenly to
Inverness from Fores, and be was unexpectedly on tbe spot to sally
forth and repel the invaders.

The encounter raged fiercely for some time on tbe plain before the
eastlo walls, for the besiegers bad assembled in great numbers, and
fought with desperation, knowing they had nought to expect from Mao-
beth's rigour should they fall prisoners into his bands.

Lady Macbeth, anxious for her husband's safety, ascended to tbe bat-
tlements with her infant son in her arms, that she might watch the
fight. She endeavoured to distinguish her lord's figure among the com-
batants, to mark his bravery in the strife, to follow his progress, to note
the issue of his death-dealing strokes, and to be the first to bail his
success.

Her solicitude for his safety, soon yielded to admiration at his val-
our ; she quenched all inquietude as to the result of the encounter, in
the certainty of conquest which such valour seemed to ensure. She felt
that this assault was already quelled ; she saw these rebels already de-
f<°!ated.

She smiled as she surveyed the scene of contest, with a sense of
prospective victory. She heeded not the danger of her own position, in
the satisfaction of observing the bravery of her husband ; she saw not
the peril that surrounded both himself and her, in the thought of their
approaching triumph.

For the portion of tbe battlements where she stood, was not entirely
sheltered from the flying arrows of the besiegers ; and at any moment
one of these missiles might reach her, as she stood there with the child
in her arms, marking the progress of the skirmish.

But close beside her — watching her, as intently as she was watching
the field, — crouched a queer, shambling, rough, bent figure, that kept its
eyes undeviatingly fixed upon her, as she stood there, near tbe outer
wall. It was that of a poor dumb creature, a strange, distorted, stoop-
ing, half-wild being, who had sought service among the underling retain
ers of the household, and who had shown a singular hankering after the
presence of the lady of the castle, and an especial fondness for her babj^
ton, Gormao.

166 THE thane's daughter.

He would bannt the passages and galleries where the women at
tendants were accustomed to pass with their infant charge. He would
crouch and hang about the portions of the castle which lady Macbeth
was in the habit of frequenting. He was shy, and shrank from notice,
particularly from that of the lord of the castle, who knew not of his
being there at all, — and was incognizant of the very existence of so
insignificant a member of his household. But even when the dumb
slouching Indulph sought the vicinity of his idols, he never courted
their regard, but slunk about their footsteps, contented, as it seemed, to
behold them distantly, and hover in their neighbourhood.

As for the lady herself, after the first inquiry with regard to who he
was, and how he came to be about the castle, she had never thought
more of him, but became accustomed to see him creeping and slinking
here and there, without bestowing farther heed to his presence. She
only knew that he was a dumb, harmless, kind of savage, who appeared
to take a peculiar pleasure in looking through his fell of thick red hair,
at her beautiful babe and herself.

And there, at that time, he lay, stooped and crouching, close to the
ground, a yard or two from the portion of the battlemented wall where
she stood. Upon her and the child he keeps his eyes fixed, gleaming
from amidst the shaggy elf-locks of ochrey red that hung about his face,
and left but little of his features to be distinguished, save those eager
wild eyes that never strayed from the objects of their regard.

Still the lady looks from the battlements, watching the scene in
which her lord is engaged ; and still the crouching Indulph stares uj^
wards, watching her and the babe in her arms.

The little Cormac is restless, and cares not to be kept so long in one
position. The dumb attendant creeps nearer and more near, until at
length he is so close, that the lady in her eagerness of noting the fight,
unconsciously lets her child's feet rest upon the shoulder of the crouch-
ing savage, who stoops there mutely, and steadily supporting the little
creature, though he maintains the same earnest watch upon its mother
and itself

The child plays with the red fell of hair, and pats and clutchet

THE thane's daughter. !67

Among the thick locks, and sees no repulsive ugliness in the being wbc
has always looked fondly upon him.

The mother's gaze is for a moment withdrawn from the object of hei
attention, to look towards her child, who strains more and more from
her arms, as he becomes more and more occupied with his new play-
thing.

She sees him dallying and tugging with the ochre hair, — she sees
him sporting with kindly hideousness, and there is something in the
sight that brings Grym and her own infancy to her thought ; she finds
that his feet are resting upon the ready patient shoulder, and the image
of Culen and his cushion-arm comes into her mind for one instant.

For one instant — but for one passing instant, does the recollection
of these by-gone things flit across her memory ; the next moment she
is again absorbed in noting the scene that is acting beneath the castle
walls.

The child climbs back into its mother's arms ; the battle rages on,
more fiercely and more near, and in her increased interest in the con-
test, lady Macbeth receives her little son half unconsciously, clasping
him to her bosom, without withdrawing her eyes from the fight.

The combatants press more closely. The besiegers rally ; they rush
forwards, and make a desperate attempt to force a breach through a
portion of the defending party that seems less strong than elsewhere.
A shower of arrows is discharged, and a few of them flying higher than
the rest, reach the battlements over which the lady is leaning.

Indulph springs from his lair. He makes wild and vehement gesti*
oulations to his lady that she should retire from the dangerous station
she is occupying. But she is intent upon the affray, and heeds him not.

An arrow alights near the spot. Then another. In despair at her
peril, Indulph exclaims : —

" For your boy's sake, if not your own, stand back, madam !"

The lady starts, and looks round in amazement.

^' Indulph ! Can the dumb speak ! And with that voice, too f I
■urely know that voice !"

She fixes her eyes upon the stooping, crouching, dumb savage, now

168 THE THANE»S DAUGHTEE.

erect, alert, energetic, eager, imploring her to withdraw from her periloui
situation.

In another instant, he darts forward, covers her son and herself with
his interposed body, while the threatening arrow pierces his own throat,
and he falls at her feet.

The locks of red hair are scattered back from the dying face, and
lady Macbeth recognizes without a doubt, the features of Culen.

She bends over him, and utters his name with wonder and pity.

"I no longer envy Grym ;" he murmurs.

"But how came you hither ? What means this disguise ?^' she said,
after a pause.

" I could not live without beholding you. I had lost all hope — I re-
linquished fame as worthless. I crept hither, hiding stature, features,
voice, beneath the stoop, the stained hair, and the eternal silence of the
dumb crouching Indulph, in the single thought of again living in your
presence — and it might be. of dying in your service. I am blest that
it is thus."

The secret lay revealed before her. Love for her — a passionate de-
votion to herself, had then inspired this heart, that was fast, ebbing
forth its last tide at her feet. But the thought of how this would ap-
pear to Macbeth, were he to come to a knowledge of this passion, beset
her with a sense of annoyance and vexation. She felt mortified rather
than exalted by the discovery of this t«rvent attachment ; and a stem
look settled upon her face, as she watched the blood that oozed from the
death-wound.

Footsteps approach. Macbeth is seeking her, and hurries towards
the spot where she stands, that he may tell her all is well over — that
their enemies are defeated — that the day is their own.

" But how comes this wounded man here ?" said her lord, when he
had received her proud congratulations. " A stranger ! Perhaps a
traitor !" added he. " Do you know who or what he is, dearest chuck ?**

The dying eyes mutely entreat her, that he may have the bliss of
hearing her acknowledge his lifelong faithful attachment. But hers are
^ver!/ed — she w^U not meet his look — she will not see his last request.

THE thane's daughter. 1G9

•* It 18 Indulph, the dumb helper, my lord," said one of the by-
itunding attendants. '^He is wounded in the throat — mortally, I
think."

" He saved our boy*s life, by the loyal intervention of his person,
my lord," said Lady Macbeth ; ^< thank him for us both."

^ It is too late ; the brave fellow's dead ;" said Macbeth, looking at
the expiring throe with a soldier's experienced eye, and with the indif-
ference to death proper to one bred amid scenes of slaughter. ^^ Come,
my dearest love, let you and I, in to the castle ; and rejoice at our suc-
oess. A feast shall be held in honor of our victory ; and this young
hero's escape shall be celebrated in flowing wine-cups. You breed our
boy well, sweet wife, in teaching him thus to look upon a battle-field be
times. Thou art truly fit to be mother to a race of heroes !'*

Not long after Macbeth thus felicitated his wife and himself on the
salvation of their son, the child's life was threatened by sickness. His
mother nursed him like a mother; while her anxiety was shared by her,
husband, who passionately loved them both.

But fate has decreed that the boy shall not live ; the little Cormao
yields to the disease, and is carried off in his infancy.

In the midst of her fierce pang for the loss of her offspring. Lady
Macbeth receives tidings of her old father's death ; but she bears both
strokes with her stern composure, that she may stimulate her more im-
pressible husband, whose duty calls him from Inverness.

She firmly urges him to obey the mandate which summons him to
Fores ; where his presence is required by his sovereign, king Duncan,
that he may aid in repelling a threatened invasion from Norway; and in
quelling an insurrection that has arisen in the Western Isles.

This latter is headed by Macdonwald, one of the chief among those
traitors most disaffected to the present dynasty. He has been heard to
utter railing taunts against king Duncan, declaring him to be a ^ chicken-
heart, more fit to preside over a brotherhood of idle monks in a cloister,
than to have the government of such valiant and hardy men of war an
khe Soots.'

170 THE THANE^S DAU6HTEIU

Lady Macbeth fails not to remind her lord of how closely his Giro
interest is concerned in preserving the throne from assailants ; its pre-
sent occupant being of his own line, and scarcely retaining tenure by a
nearer claim of blood than that which he himself possesses. Between
the husband and wife, the question of this equally near claim, and its
possible results, has been discussed ; but with scarce-uttered, scarce-
conceived intentions ; neither season nor opportunity offering for the re-
moval of the one obstacle to their wishes Their imaginations are fired
with the same thought ; but they hardly permit its burning image to b€
visible to each other. Dimly, luridly, it lurks latent, fed with foul va-
pours of unhallowed desire ; only vaguely, dare they permit themselves
to shape its existence in words ; — ^but they know and feel, that a crown,
— even though it be gemmed with bloody drops, — is, in fact, that one
glowing thought.

The thane departs.

Lady Macbeth receives tidings of her husband's progress from time
to time ; for he has no dearer thought than that of sharing his successet
with her.

He sends messengers with letters to her ; informing her of his gra-
cious reception by the king, of the confidence expressed in the succour
he can afford to the state, of the entire reliance upon his counsels and
prowess. He tells her that he has responded to the monarch's wishes,
by undertaking the whole direction of the royal forces ; upon condition
that no misplaced leniency shall interfere with his proceedings, and that
the unreserved controul and appointment of the war shall be placed in
the hands of himself, and of Banquo, thane of Lochaber, to conduct as
they list, and as best shall seem to them. Under their combined gene*
ralship, thus unrestricted, he has undertaken, that the rebels shall be
shortly vanquished and put down.

Exultmgly expectant. Lady Macbeth abides in the castle of Inver
ness ; and each fresh letter that she receives, confirms by its prosperous
intelligence, the fulfilment of her aspiring hopes.

News reaches her of the successful issue of the combat between her
lord and the rebel Macdonwald, whose traitor head is fixed upon thf
royalist battlements.

THE thane's DADOHTEB. 171

Close upon the heels of that messenger arrives another, who brings
word of the encounter at Fife, wherein the invading army of Sweno, the
Norway king, is put to the rout and defeated, and the victory secured,
by Macbeth, who is to be invested immediately with the forfeited title
and estates of the thane of Cawdor ; he having disloyally fqught beneath
the Norwegian banner.

Scarcely has Lady Macbeth welcomed these tidings, when a letter is
placed in her hands by a trusty envoy from her lord, wherein she reads
words of wondrous import, that kindle into flame the smouldering fire
of her thought.

Her self-communing upon this perusal, begins in these words of
apostrophe to her lord : —

^ Glamis thou art^ and Cawdor; and shalt be
What thou art promised."

-•-•^

But that 'our will become the servant to defect,' the above should
he ' prologue to the swelling act of the imperial theme.'

HELENA ; THE PHYSICIAN'S^ ORPHAN.

TALE m.

HELENA; THE PHYSICIAN'S ORPHAN

*< She derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness."

AWa well that enda voeU.

" Well met !" said the chevalier de Vaumond, to his friend, Gautier
Gerard, as the two young men encountered each other in one of the prin-
cipal streets of Perpignan, on a certain fine summer morning. " And
pray whither may you be bound, my good fellow ? On some scheme of
pleasure, I trust Do. for once in a way, consent to omit attendance
upon that very worthy, but unquestionably prosy Professor of yours,
and leave him to lecture to the few steady stolidities, your brother-
students, who may be absurd enough to hold it their duty not to play
truant, when such a morning as this bids them keep outside of College
walls."

Gerard answered w'th a smile.

" You will not call it a scheme of pleasure, perhaps, de Vaumond.
Your taste has no relish for rural enjoyment. For my part, I long for
a pure breeze, a stout walk, the broad expanse of sky, and the open,
honest face of Nature. I have been studying hard ; and had determined
to give myself a holiday this morning ; and so took my way forth early,
resolved not to set foot again within the gates of Perpignan, for many a
pleasant hour of freedom, fresh air, and exercise."

•^ And what says Papa Gerard to such a spell of liberty as that ?"
asked his friend. ^^ Can he let you absent yourself so long from th«

176 HELENA;

Temple of Mammon, the cavern of golden ingots, the precious store-
house of wealth, the beloved Banking-house ? But I forget, good Papa
Gerard wills that his son and heir shall redeem the bourgeois stain,
erase the roturier stigma from the family name, and raise the dignity
of his house, by eschewing the clerkly stool and mercantile desk for
the higher honors of the medical chair. Well, did the young doctor
obtain the paternal sanction for this long holiday ? "

The chevalier glanced somewhat maliciously into his friend's face, as
he made this broad allusion to the merchant-banker's well-known strict
maintenance of patriarchal authority. But young Gerard, though he
colored slightly, only said with a good-humoured laugh, " Oh yes, I have
leave of absence ; so let us be off I That is, if you care to go."

'^ If I do, you must promise not to keep up such a striding pace, my
good fellow I" said the chevalier in a languid tone, and suddenly coming
to a halt. '^ Recollect, the breezes won't float away, or the sky fade be-
yond your ken, or the fields run from you. So you needn't pursue them
at that Atlantean rate. And besides abjuring this foot-race speed,"
continued he, when they had resumed their walk at a more moderate
pace, ^^ you must promise not to let your proposed long walk detain me
beyond a reasonable hour of return this evening. I have an appoint-
ment in the Rue Grenoble, after sunset, that I would not miss for all
the rural landscapes that ever were beheld."

'^ I wish you would give up those meetings in the Rue Grenoble, my
dear Etienne," said Gerard earnestly. " You waste your health, your
fortune, and your best energies, by devoting them to so worthless a pur-
suit as gambling. Shutting yourself up night after night, as you do, in
that stifling saloon, breathing only its impure air, scorched by wax-
lights, reeking with fevered breath, poisonous with unwholesome mur-
murs and imprecations ; and this you prefer to the balm of evening air^
the glow of sunset, and the tranquillity of a country scene !"

" I never could see the vaunted charm of rural delights, for my part,"
said Etienne de Yaumond peevishly. '^ They seem to me to consist in
dusty roads, vicious cowe, wallowing hogs, stupid-faced baaing sheep, ill-
victualled larders, infamously-cooked dinners, milk-pans for wine-flasks —

..!•,

THE physician's ORPHAN. 77

or vinegar, by courtesy called wine, — ^louts of men, and thick-ankled^
red-handed, sun-burned women." «

" Do you find no charm in such a spot as this?'' asked Gerard, as the
two young men turned at this moment out of the high road, along which
they had been proceeding hitherto, and entered a small wicket-gate
which opened into a broad-spreading meadow. ^^ Do you see no-
thing pleasant in this green-sward beneath our feet — those waving
corn-fields yonder, those stretching uplands — that wooded descent on
the left, combining the bright green of chesnuts, the sombre silveriness
of olives, the walnut, and tufted mulberry — that clear mill-stream be-
low— those trailing vines on the right, flaunting and twining in profuse
festoons from tree to tree — these shadowing oaks »bove our heads, with
their rugged branches, and clusters of leaves so richly defined against
the blue sky beyond — the smell of the earth, of the fresh air, mingled
with the wafted fragrance of blossoms, of weeds, and odorous breath of
kine ? Is there nothing in these shapes and scents of Nature that stirs
a sense of enjoyment within you, and rouses an emotion of gladness and
gratitude ?"

The chevalier looked at his friend with a sort of wonder, and a light
laugh, as his only reply to an enthusiasm which he could not under-
stand. Gerard felt, at the first moment, that kind of bashfulne<«s com-
mon to ingtjnuous youth when it finds itself suddenly betrayed into the
expression of a deep feeling, which has been long allowed to dwell
secretly within. The surprise mirrored in a commonplace countenance
checks the sentiment's utterance as something misplaced and absurd ;
but an honest heart will recover soon from this first misgiving, and, with
faith in its own true feeling, will only cherish it more deeply than ever,
though learning to guard it henceforth more sacredly from unsympathetic
observation.

The two young men walked on a few paces in silence : then fell into
a lively talk about some of their mutual friends and companions ; of a
fencing-match that was in prospect ; of the chevalier's determination to
enjoy to the utmost the independence which had lately fallen to him by
the death of his father; hints of the commiseration he felt for hif

I '^8 HELENA ;

friend, less favored by fortune in this respect than himself, seeing that
Gerard was still subject to parental domination.

" My father loves to see me yield with a good grace to his will, it ii
true :" said Gerard with his former half-blush and smile ; and sometimes
he seems to forget that I have trebled six years, for he still talks to me
as if I were a child of that age, and questions me of college studies as
he used then to do of my baby lessons and good behaviour. But it is
only the partial fondness of a father for his only son, that makes him
unwilling to give up this tone, and I should be churlish indeed if I re-
sented as interference, what is only affectionate anxiety for my good."

" As long as his notions of what may be your good, and your notions
of your own good, chance to accord, this may be all well and good,
my good fellow, and so far so good ;" retorted de Vaumond ; " but
depend on't, when difference of opinion shall arise between you upon
this point, — as it must and will, some day or other — ^you may find Papa
Gerard's solicitude for your welfare a little troublesome, mon cher."

" Well, till that day arrives, I am contented to remember only that hia
paternal ordering of my affairs has hitherto been productive of nothing
but benefit to me ;" said Gerard. ^* He has given me a liberal education,
a liberal allowance, and destines me for a liberal profession — for all
which I am heartily grateful, and think the least return I can make for
so much liberality on his part, is generosity in construing his kindness,
and a dutiful observance of his wishes on mine."

" Which observance includes entire submission of your will to his ;"
muttered the chevalier ; " appropriation of your time according to his dis-
posal ; shaping your goings and comings solely by his good leave ; taking
your meals at his appointed hours ; responsible to him in all things ;
your thoughts, opinions, feelings, scarce your own ; — for depend on it,
such tyranny grows by indulgence, and your penalty will be slavery com*
plete. You have had your profession chosen for you with a view to
helping the family honor a step up in the world — from the rotourier
wealth of the banker, to the hoped-for renown of the physician ; and
next, you will have your wife chosen for you. as a means of obtaining
another grade in society. I should not wonder if some demoiselle of

THE physician's ORPHAN. 179

gentle blood is even now in Papa Gerard's eyes, who shall link his nam€
with nobility."

Gerard laughed out. " You have indeed drawn a formidable picture,
de Vaumond ; and I must add, an exaggerated one. But however that
may be, as there is no chance of so serious a controul being exercised
over my inclinations as marrying me against my will, yet, let us enjoy
the holiday vouchsafed to me at present. Hark, what music is that ?
There seems to be a village festival going on here.'*

As Gerard finished speaking, he and his companion emerged from the
wood through which they had taken their way after crossing the meadow,
and they suddenly came upon a scene animated and gay, that formed a
striking contrast with the solitude and quiet amid which they had pre-
viously wandered.

There was a large assembly of peasants, who had gathered from sev-
eral neighbouring villages to celebrate the festival of the patron saint of
the vicinity. All were in their holiday array ; all was sport, feasting,
and sylvan revelry.

The spot was a village green. Several cottages were sprinkled
arounf, forming a not very considerable hamlet ; and farther on, might
be seen the tower of the rustic church, with its few grassy tombs beneath,
surmounted by their sparkling gilt crosses, hung with garlands, and
bespread with scattered flowers. But flowers and garlands prevailed
everywhere in the scene that presented itself to the eyes of the two
young men. Heaps of flowers decorated every window; festoons of
flowers hung from door to door, looped and fastened with gay-colored
ribands ; long chains of flowers were suspended in all directions from
the spreading tree tha* stood in the centre of the green sward ; nosegays
of flowers were in all hands ; coronals of flowers decked all heads ;
bunches of flowers were set out upon all the tables ; and some favorite
flower adorned the vest of each of the lads, and the boddice of each of
the lasses.

.In one corner sat the group that furnished the music for the occa-
sion. Homely were the pipes that blew, and slightly skilled might be
the bow, which scraped those sounds of mirth, but well they sufficed foi

168 THE THANES SAUOHTEB.

areot, alert, energetio, eager, imploring her to withdr&w from ber perilont
BitQstioa

In another instant, he darts forward, oovers her sod and herself with
bis interposed body, while the threatening arrow pierces his own throat,
ftnd he falls at her feet.

The locks of red hair are acattered back from tbe dying fitce, and
lady Macbeth recognizes nitbout a doubt, the features of Gulen.

She bends over bim, and utters his name with wonder and pity.

"I no longer envy Grym ;" he murmurs.

"But how came you hither ? What means this disguise?" she said,
after a pause.

" I could not live without beholding you. I had lost all hope — I re-
linquished fame as worthless I crept hither, hiding Etature, features,
voice, beneath the stoop, the stained hair, and the eternal silence of the
dumb crouching Indulpb. in the single thought of again living in your
presence — and it might be, of dying in your service. I am bleat that

The secret lay revealed before her. Love for her — a passionate de-
votion to herself, had then inspired this heart, that was fast, ebbing
forth its last tide at her feet. But tbe thought of how this would ap-
pear to Macbeth, were he to come to a knowledge of this passion, beset
her with a sense of annoyance and vexation. She felt mortified rather
than exalted by the discovery of this l«rvent attachment ; and a stern
look settled upon her face, as she watched the blood that oozed from the
death- wonnd.

Footsteps approach. Macbeth is seeking her, and hurries towards
the spot where she stands, that he may tell her all is well over — that
their enemies are defeated — that the day is their own.

"But how comes this wounded man here?" said ber lord, vben ha
bad received her proud congra tula 'ions. "A stranger I Perhaps a
traitor I" added he. " Do you know who or wiiat he is, dearest chuck !"

The dying eyes mutely entreat her, that lie miy have the bliss of
hearing her acknowledge his lifelong faitbfnl attnchnient But hers are
averted — she will not meet bis look — she will not xee hia last reqoaA. ,

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180 Helena;

timing the gay footing of the dancers, who with native vivacity and
grace were bounding away in joyous lightsome measure, while some
brandished tambourines high above their heads, and thrummed and
jingled to aid the music, and swell the merry uproar.

Cordially rang the laughing voices, sprightly were the glances, cheer-
ful the hearts, swift the steps, whisking tha petticoats, rapid the heads,
sudden the arras, pliant the waists, twinkling the feet, bright the colors
of the holiday garbs, as the peasant youths and maidens darted to and
fro in their mad-cap sport, and hand-in-hand dfl.nce.

The turf seemed alive with bright-coloured beings, on the spot where
the dancing was at its height. But spreading in all directions, were
animated groups of gaily-clothed peasants ; some two and two, with bent
heads and low earnest tones, engaged in rural courtship. Others lolling
on the grass, toying, and chatting, and frolicking, in games where some
half dozen were occupied together ; a gaping crowd farther on, collected
round the wonder-rife table of an escamoteur ; another grinning at the
humours of a charlatan, holding forth in extolment of his wares ; another
staring wide-mouthed and nez-enl'air at the marvellous leaps and bounds
of a voltigeur ; at the tables sat a knot of village-politicians, listAing to
some favorite orator, or a set of jolly fellows drinking, or another set
deep in the interest of dominoes ; and on benches around, sat groups of
elders, proud mothers, gray-headed fathers, discreet aunts, indulgent
uncles, gossip lovers, talkers, and lookers-on of all sorts

" I suppose you feel no inclination to sue for one of those red hands,
88 partner in the dance, de Vaumond ;" said Gerard, smiling. " Those
damsels are all too thick-ankled or too sun-burned for your worship's fas-
tidious town-taste, of course ? And yet, do you know, they look so gay
and good-humoured, and I can, methinks, even at this distance, discern
many a trim foot and slender waist among them, that would be quite
comely enough for my turn, if one of their pretty owners would indulge
me with her hand, for a dance or two. I am still quite boy enough to
feel my blood tingle to make one in such a merry dance as that yonder.
Come, what say you to one dance among them? Let's be worthy
Frenchmen, and find a dance irresistible, when a pleasant one offeni !
Come »"

,%fti

THE physician's ORPHAN. 18

^ I oare little for dancing," answered the ohevalicr ; '^ but a tumbler
3f oool wine, now, after our long walk, would not be amiss. Perhaps
tiome of the swains may be willing to bestow one, in good fellowship
with a gentleman. We'll see."

" What if you can get a draught of milk only ; or a vinegar pota-
tion ?" said Gerard, as the two young men approached the busy scene ;
*' you know, dairies are the only cellars in the country, — and milk-pans
the only wine-flasks; unless you consent to drink vinegar under the
name of vin du pays "

The chevalier made his way to one of the tables, where he soon made
himself at home with its occupants ; gravely bantering the politicians, by
engaging them in mock disputes, telling them marvellous news, and
inventing strange rumours ; winking humourously at the by-standers,
making them parties to his jokes upon the sages, winning their personal
liking by easy chat, familiar convivial manner, and sociable enjoyment
of the wine-cup that was passing freely round.

Meanwhile,' Gerard lingered near the dancers, watching their move-
ments, and looking upon the many pretty faces and comely shapes ; try-
ing to make up his mind which of them he should ask to be his partner,
when the dance should break up and another should be formed.

While he was thus engaged, a remarkably sweet-speaking voice-
struck his ear. He turned, but could see no one near, to whom the-
voice seemed to belong.

It is singular to notice how rapidly the mind decides, under such'
circumstances, in appropriating particular voices to particular casts of
countenance ; a glance suffices, at a strange face, to ascertain whether
the sound just heard by chance, has proceeded from that person or not

Again the soft feminine tone reached Gerard's ear, and though he
could not distinguish the words it uttered, he felt irresistibly attracted
to discover and look upon the speaker. He was leaning against the fine
large tree that formed the centre of the village-green, and he fancied
that the sound proceeded from the other side of the aged trunk, which
was so large in the circumference of its bole, that it might well screen
several persons from his view. He moved round the tree, and saw a

\ 8'4 HELENA ^

group of persons who were seated beneath its shade on the opposite
side. A grey-headed man, whose garb at once proclaimed him to be the
venerable Cur6 of the village, sat on a wooden chair with his back to-
wards Gerard, whilst opposite to him was seated a white-capped, gold-
earringed, smooth-aproned, wrinkle-cheeked, but quick-eyed old dame,
who seemed to be his Bonne. She was knitting diligently, but her keen
eyes were not required for her work ; her practised hands plied the
needles with twinkling rapidity, and allowed her sharp glances to be
wholly absorbed by another object.

Over the back of the Curb's chair leaned the figure of a young pea-
sant girl. She had drooped over the shoulder of the old man, so that
her face rested nearly on his bosom, whence it looked up at the Bonne,
and was indeed the object upon which her keen eyes rested.

By the young girl's position, her face was entirely hidden from
Gerard's sight, but as soon as that bending figure met his eye, Gerard
felt no hesitation in at once ascribing the voice he heard, to herself
There was something harmonious in the flexible grace of the outline
that seemed to claim afiinity with the gentle tones ; something of beau-
ty, purity, and attractive charm that rendered both naturally akin.

^* But your father should not have allowed you to come alone !'* re-
torted the Bonne with a tone as sharp as her eyes, to something the
sweet voice had just said.

" I did not come alone ;" it replied. " My father sent Petit Pierre
with me."

" Bah ! Petit Pierre, indeed !" was the tart exclamation of the
Bonne, with a cutting flash of her eyes, and a smart snap of her knit-
ting-needles — " Petit Pierre, forsooth ! A pretty person to take care
of you ! A cow-boy ! An urchin of ten years old ! A scape-grace
that can't take care of himself, much less of any body else ! What
eould your father be thinking of?"

^^ My father was thinking of indulging me, as usual ;" replied the
soft voice. " You know everybody says he spoils his Gabrielle ; and as
he found she was intent upon going, and as nobody could be spared
from the farm so well as Petit Pierre, my father sent him with me."

THE physician's OB PHAN. 18^

" I oan*t think why you were so intent upon coming, for my part."
said the old lady, darting another piercing glance, and sticking one of
her needles with a sudden stab into her apron-string ; I don't mind
your coming over quietly, as you do at other times, to read, and write,
and study, and to talk, and confess, to Monsieur le Cur6. That is all
very right and proper, and what he approves, I approve, of course ; but
why you should take it into your foolish little head to come to the Ute
is what I can't fathom, and can't approve ; it's not at all the thing for
you, Mademoiselle Gabrielle, to come here, with only a cow-urchin to
take care of you, among a parcel of strangers, and a crowd of nobody-
knows-who from the other villages.

Here the old lady snatched out the knitting-needle again, and darted
it into her work with a poignant thrust, and began another row, without
so much as suffering her eyes for an instant to withdraw from the suc-
cession of pointed interrogatories they were aiming with such relentless
acuteness into the face that looked up into hers. Be it remarked, by
the bye, that this excellent old Bonne only whetted the edge of her
vigilance upon the young girl from excess of affection towards her, and
from a sense of her own duty towards one she loved so well. There
are many worthy Bonnes like this old lady, whose feelings are more
kindly than their manner ; and whom to judge by their sharp eyes and
tones, you would guess to be possessed of hearts made of steel or stone,
and not of such soft stuff as they really are.

" I believe we mustn't quarrel with anything that brings her to us,
my good Jeanneton," said the old Cur6, patting the head that restc i
upon his breast, and pressing it against him ; '^ we are too glad to have
Gabrielle with us upon any terms, are we not ?"

Madame Jeanneton only shook her head sharply, and muttered
something about " spoiled on all hands ; spoiled by her own father, and
spoiled by her reverend father, who ought to know bettor."

" It is our fault if she be spoiled, certainly, Madame Jeanneton, you
ar J right enough there ;" said Monsieur le Cur^ ; " for who can help in-
dulging Oabrielle ? Besides, I don't find that she is spoiled, for my
part; I think she's very pleasant and good. ^ Gentille-et-sage' I caU

184 V HELENA;

her, don't I, Gabrielle? And Oentille-et-sage yoa'll continue to be
spite of the indulgence of your two old fathers, won't you, my child 1
After all, there's a great difference between spoiling and indulgence,
you know," added the old Cur6, as if to disarm his Bonne by placing
his weakness on the high ground of principle ; ^ I think that in-
dulgence does people good, makes them better-behaved, and more
pleasant — at least, sensible people ; and our Oabrielle is very sensible,
is she not ?"

" And I wished so very very much to see the ffete you cannot think ;"
said the girl, with that sweet voice of hers, so childlike in its simple
earnestness, so girlish in its innocent gaiety, so womanly in its deep
tenderness. I had never seen the famous feast of S S. Pierre et Paul,
though I have heard of it ever since I can remember ; so I could not
help coming over this time."

" But as you are come to the fdte you would like to dance, would
you not, my child ?" asked Monsieur. " Your young feet would fain
be skipping about. I dare say ; wouldn't they ?"

" No, mon pere ;" replied the girl ; '• I did not come to dance, I
came to see the ffete ; to look on with you."

Gerard had for some little time past, been determining that this was
the partner he should best like to obtain for the dance he had proposed
to enjoy ; and had determined to step forward and ask her hand, when
there should be a pause in the conversation. But these few last words
discouraged him.

As he stood irresolute, the girl slightly changed her position ; and
in raising her head to look again towards the dancers, Gerard caught a
full view of her face. It was not strikingly handsome, but it beamed
with good-humour, good- sense, candour, and a bewitching look of sweet-
ness that was almost better than absolute beauty.

At least, so thought Gerard, as he felt how entirely the faoo
harmonised with the figure and the voice he had already found so
attractive.

His hesitation in addressing her, grew in proportion with his
increased desire to obtain her for a partner in the dance ; he wished

♦ f

THE physician's ORPHAN. 185

for some inoident which might offer a medium for what seemed an
abruptness, and almost a presumption in one so wholly a stranget
to her.

He had scarcely formed the wish, ere it was gratified. Monsieur U
Cure happened to drop his stick, which had rested against his knee ;
and Gerard, alertly stepping forward, and restoring it to the old gen-
tleman with a respectful look and a few pleasant words, at once gained
the means of introduction he had desired.

His frank, pleasant bearing soon ingratia«;«d him with the little
party. He told Monsieur le Cure his name, and of his having left'
Perpignan that morning, with a companion, in the hope of enjoying a
walk and a country holiday ; he said how pleasantly fulfilled his hope
had been by coming unexpectedly upon their village festival ; he spoke
of his desire to partake in the sports and dancing ; and when he reached
this point, he found courage to conclude, by expressing a hope that
Mademoiselle would indulge him with her hand for the next dance.

^' Mademoiselle Gabrielle did not come with the intention of danc-
ing ;" said the Bonne. It was not that the good lady disapproved
of the young stranger; on the contrary, she thought he was a very
eligible partner for their favorite Gabrielle ; but it was simply from
her habit of officiously settling the affairs of others, that led her to say
this.

But Gabrielib, accustomed by indulgence to decide for herself, said
simply : — '^ I did not intend to dance ; but I think I should like to
dance now, if you do not object, mon pdre ?"

" I object ?" Certainly not, my dear. Go, and have a dance, my
child ; I am glad you have changed your mind. Go, Gentille-ct-sage,
and dance with monsieur ; what can be more natural than for young
people to enjoy dancing?"

Gerard and Gabrielle amply confirmed the truth of the old gentle-
man's concluding proposition ; for they joined with untiring spirit in
all the successive dances that took place on the green-sward that day.
It seemed to be the mode here that there should be no restriction in
the matter of changing or retaining partners ; each couple seemed to be

186 Helena;

at full liberty to lorm new selections, or to remain constant to thcii
original choice. Gerard availed himself of this license, by keeping ex-
elusive possession of the hand of ' Gentille-et-sage ;' nor did she seem
averse from the arrangement. Hour after hour passed gaily away, un-
heeded by either.

In the afternoon. Monsieur le Cur^ asked Gerard to bring his part*
ncr to his house hard by, where he said a humble entertainment awaited
them. The old man politely included in the invitation the gentleman
whom he understood had accompanied Gerard from town. But the
chevalier de Vaumond was deeply engaged in a game of aominoes ; and
protesting he had already dined sumptuously with his excellent new
acquaintance (the clown with whom he was now playing), bade Gerard
not trouble himself farther about him, but hasten to attend his fair part-
ner, as they had both evidently discovered congenial friends and pur-
suits. Gerard did not altogether like the tone in which this was said ;
but the thought was soon banished from his mind, when he rejoined the
Cure, Gabrielle, and the Bonne.

A cheerful apartment opening into a garden, where roses, pinks,
pot-herbs, gilliflowers, myrtles, cabbages, oleanders, fig-trees, geraniums,
orange-trees, honeysuckle, cherries, sweet-briar, apples, lettuces, lilies,
mulberry-trees, vines, and carnations flourished in amicable confusion
together, mingling their blended scents in one delicious combination of
fragrance to greet the senses of the diners ; a neatly-spread table, a
kindly host, a sweet-voiced woman, happy spirits, gay looks, mirthful
conversation, all contributed to render the repast one of the most ex-
quisite Gerard had ever tasted.

A vision of some of the grand banquets given by his father to divers
of his wealthy connections, — banquets where every species of costly
delicacy, and rare wine, and massive plate had laden the board, which
was surrounded only by corpulent Millionaires and rubicund Rentiers
and dull Douairidres, — came over Gerard with a sense of suffocation, as
the contrast forced itself upon him passingly ; the contrast which such
gorgeous feasts formed with the simple meal before him.

Another merit presented by the simple lightness of the meal of

THE FHTSICIAN's ORPHAN. 197

which they had just partaken, was, that it offered do impediment to the
resumption of dancing as soon as they pleased.

The old Cur6 accordingly proposed their adjournment forthwith to
the village-green ; leaving the Bonne to superintend those household
matters which might require re-arrangement after the important meal of
the day. Nor was it perceptihle that her secession caused any diminu-
tion of comfort to the party.

More dances were enjoyed together ; more hours sped unheeded
away. But when the sloping rays of the sun slanted so low and so
level with the earth, that Gentille-et-sage could no longer disregard their
warning of passing time, she said, ^* I must return. It is evening ; and
I must go Lome."

There was just enough of regret, in the sweet cadence of her voice,
as Gabrielle uttered these few words, to console Gerard for their import.
He yielded to the motion with which she turned in the direction where
they had left the old man seated, that she might bid the Cure farewell,
but he availed himself of the usage, which permitted him, as her partner,
to keep her hand in his.

"You are going, my child," said the Cur6, as they approached, and
she took her leave of him. " Well, you are right ; your father will be
expecting you. I must not detain you. But how wrong this is of
Petit Pierre, not to be here ready to go back with you !"

" I am not afraid to go home alone, mon pere, you know I do it
often, when I come over to see you," said she.

" I hope Mademoiselle Gabrielle will allow me the pleasure of being
her companion, as Monsieur Petit Pierre has not thought fit to make
his appearance ;" said Gerard.

" Well, if you are not unwilling to go so far out of your way, mon
bon Monsieur Gerard," said the old Cure, " that will be a very good
plan. The farm does certainly lie a little round about ; somewhat off
the straight road to Perpignan, but to young legs like yours I dare say
that won't much matter, even after a day's dancing. Besides, perhaps
you may meet Petit Pierre on the road, you know, and then he can
save Monsieur the trouble, can't he, Gentille et-sage ? If he should

188 HELENA :

make his appearance soon, I will be sure and hasten him after yon,
my dear."

The old Car6 said all this with so much simplicity and unconscious
good faith, that it seemed a pity to offer any new view of the affair ; and
Oerard forbore to explain that he regarded the circumstance of Monsieur
Petit Pierre's defection as peculiarly fortunate. Contenting himself,
therefore, with taking a cordial leave of the good old man, thanking him
for the share he had had in making his holiday one of the most delight-
ful he had ever spent, and expressing a hope that he would permit him
to come and renew his acquaintance ere long, they parted ; the venerable
Cur6 returning to his own house, Gerard and Gabrielle taking the direc-
tion of the wood, through which the young man had passed just before
coming upon the scene of the village festival that morning.

^ I do not repeat what I said about not being afraid of going home
alone, because it will be as if I asked you to assure me that you think
it a pleasure, and no trouble, to go out of your way ;" said Gentille-et-
sage ; " so I will only thank you for your good company."

^^ If you«wish to be very generous in your thanks, tell me that you
prefer it to your own ;" he replied.

" I prefer it even to Petit Pierre's ;" said she archly.

" And pray how came this Monsieur Petit Pierre to indulge us with
his absence, by leaving you so unceremoniously to find a substitute for
his doughty escort ?" asked Gerard.

^^ I lost sight of him almost directly after we arrived here, this morn-
ing ;" answered Gabrielle ; '' he seemed to think he had fulfilled my
father's wish when he had seen me to Monsieur le Cure's side, and that
he was thenceforth at liberty to follow his own devices for the rest of
the day. As indeed he was, for no compact had been made that he
should abide by me, or return for me ; and he well knows that I am in
the constant habit of going backwards and forwards by myself between
«ur farm and the village."

'^ Well, whatever may have been the seductive Mat de cocagne, or
other entertainment which may have proved the irresistible cause of
Monsieur Petit Pierre's truancy, I confess myself beholden to it;"

:.'!

THE physician's ORPHAN. 189

said Gerard. " But," added he, '^ I suppose it is the society of that
kind and pleasant old man which brings you over so frequently to the
village. Monsieur le Cur6 seems to be worthy of all esteem and
affection."

" Ho is indeed !" said Oabrielle warmly. " You should see him as I
have done, praying by the side of the sick and dying, cheering, comfort-
ing, sustaining them. You should hear his holy words, and witness his
own virtuous life which brings example as well as precept to the couch
of the sufferer. You should know how he quits his snug hearth, his
cherished study, his own bed, at all hours, and at all seasons, not only
unrepiningly but with kindly eagerness. You should know how he lives
scantily, and denies himself the luxury of books — a far harder frugality
to him — that he may the better spare the assistance which is never with-
held when needed by his poor neighbours. His charity is of the purest
kind — for he is generous of his gifts, of his time, of his help, bestowed
ungrudgingly from his own store. And his mind is as large as his heart ;
for though he is singularly simple-mannered and modest, he is very sen-
sible, has read much, and has a fine memory."

^ And he has doubtless afforded you some of the advantages of thia
love of study of his ;" said Gerard. " It is as his pupil, and to read with
him, I suppose, that you so frequently come over here from your owa
home."

" Yes, he is most kind to me ; I love him dearly ; we are very happy
together ; and my father, whose happiness it is to see his Oabrielle happy,
lets me be with Monsieur le Cur6 as often as we both please. So I have
spent much of my time in that pleasant little parlour of his, at his side^
reading to him, and hearing him talk. For when we come to any pas-
sage that reminds Monsieur le Cur6 of something that he has read in
some other book, he tells me about it, or even repeats it to me. He has
an excellent memory, as 1 told you, which is very fortunate ; since his
charitable heart prevents his buying as many books as he could wish,
ho has luckily, in this way, a sort of extra shelf of them in his head.''

Gentille-et-sage continued to chat on thus, so gaily and so easily,
Ihat Gerard, who was at home accounted a Bomewhaf shy and reserved

190 HELENA ;

youth, became, with this young girl, whom he had known only a few
hours, equally communicatiye with herself.

He found himself telling her freely, with the happy egoism induced
by cordial companionship, of his mother, whose partiality knew no
bounds ; of his father, whose affection showed itself in a stricter exer-
cise of authority, which perhaps only by contrast with her maternal
fondness seemed like controul ; of his enthusiasm for his profession, and
of his hopes of one day attaining skill and eminence in its pursuit.

A more exquisite flattery can hardly be administered to self-love, or
one that better excuses the weakness it appeals to and elicits, than the
sympathy of such a companion as Gabrielle ; it at once calls forth, and
rewards the candour of revelation. Under such influence, a sensitive
heart yields its hoarded treasures of feeling, and is at once happy in its
new frbedom, and grateful towards its liberator.

Gerard felt this gratitude towards Gabrielle. The encouragement
afforded by the intelligence, interest, and response he read in every look
of hers ; the simple ease of her manners which set him at equal case ;
the friendly tone thus at once assumed between them ; all made him
feel more at home, more familiar, more allied, as it were, with this re-
cent acquaintance, than he had ever felt with any human being.

An incident occurred that tended to heighten this sense of fami-
liarity. The day had been sultry ; the sky now became suddenly over-
oas.. ; the gloom was more than the mere closing in of evening ; clouds
gathered, a few large drops fell, then more, and faster, and soon a heavy
shower pelted down with such violence, that the thick leaves above were
insufficient to protect Gabrielle from the rain. Gerard perceived at a
little distance an oak-tree, the trunk of which was so time-worn and
hollow, as to admit of Gabrielle's ensconcing herself within. They
hastened towards the spot, and as she crept into the rugged bole, he
laughingly admired her Dryad's nook, and congratulated her on the
perfect shelter it afforded from the wet. '

" It is dry certainly," said she, " and yet I can't allow it to be a per
feet shelter, since it is not large enough to hold us both. Dryads, I
believe, were reputed beneficent, and the least the sylvan goddess coulo

THE PHTSICTAN's ORPHAN. 191

do, would be to share with an unhappy mortal the protection her tree
affords ; whereas I am snugly and selfishly screened, and you are get-
ting wet through."

They chatted on about Dryads, woodland deities, sylvan haunts^
poets and their poetical fancies, and a thousand pleasant subjects, which
served to show that this peasant girl had profited by her reading with
the old Cur6, in laying up a store of beautiful and gracious ideas, and
in obtaining a glimpse of something beyond the usual education of a
farmer's daughter.

It was an odd combination — this fact of birth, and this accident
of instruction — but it was a pleasant one ; for the country maiden was
so natural, so unconsciout*, so merely valuing the acquirement for its
own sake, for the pleasure it afforded her, and the opportunity it gave
her of being with her old friend the Cur6, that it did not injure her
character. Oabrielle was a being, inartificial and graceful, as she was
singular.

The shower was persevering. Half an hour, an hour, two hours
elapsed, almost unconsciously ; although Gabrielle proposed several
times, issuing from her nook, and facing the wet, saying that it was not
very far now from the farm, and that it would be better to hurry thither
at once, as the rain might last for some time. But Gerard was so urgent
in pr-^testing that now it was going to give over very shortly, and now it
was much lighter in the wind, and now he was sure that if they waited
ten minutes longer, they might go in perfect security, that Gabrielle
gave way, and remained within the hollow tree.

The shower ceased as suddenly as it had come on ; but when at
length she was able to emerge from shelter, Gabrielle found that a
much longer time had elapsed than she had been at all aware of, while
chatting away, screened within the recesses of the oak. She hastened
on, and expressed some anxiety lest her father might be uneasy at her
late return. As long as they remained within the wood, Gabrielle flat-
tered herself that it was the shadow of the trees that made it seem so
dark ; but when they reached the open fields beyond, she could nc
longer help seeing that evening had quite closed in.

192 HELENA ;

^^ I hope my father will have fancied that I am staying all night at
Monsieur le Curb's;" she said, half to pacify her own thought, half
aloud to Gerard. " Then he will have no anxiety about my safety."

Half a mile more brought them to a lane, close, and bowery, and
shut in by thick hedgerows on each side. Some trees grew overarch-
ingly above, so that little of the sky could be seen ; but here and there
a star twinkled through the branches, and Gabrielle, perceiving that
Gerard's pace was less assured, as he followed this darkened and un-
known track, withdrew her arm from his, and taking him by the hand,
led him onwards. He could hear her laughing melodious voice, as she
paced quickly along this accustomed path, and spoke in gay, assured,
home-returning tones.

Presently she stopped at a little door, which seemed to be made in
a garden-wall. Gerard could hear her unlock it ; and then she turned
again to him, and said : — ^^ Give me your hand again ; you will not be
able to find your way here, unless I lead you. Now stoop your head ;
you are tall, and the doorway is low."

Gerard could hear the rustle of the branches, and indistinctly see
them laden with fruit, as Gabrielle held back the dripping boughs of
some cherry and summer-apple trees, that overhung the narrow path,
and besprinkled them profusely as they passed beneath.

^' This is almost as bad as the shower in the wood ; but you are
already wet through, and a few additional drops won't signify. I shall
soon be able to have your coat properly dried ;" said the pleasant voice.
'* 0, take care of that walnut bough — and these rose-bushes — round this
way ; now stoop again, under this honeysuckle arch ; there, now up a
few steps, and here are we !"

Another door was pushed open; they entered, and Gerard found
himself beneath a roof of some sort, but he could see nothing ; until
presently, his conductress quitting hold of his hand, he heard a little
gentle bustling to and fro, — a light foot, — a closet opened, and then
came the sound of a flint and steel struck smartly ; a spark fell upon
the tinder, a flickering vision emerged from the gloom, of a face, irradi-
ated by smiles no less than by the nascent glow, as the lips closed in a

THE PHYSICLA.n'S ORPHAN. 193

rosy circle, puffing gently and coaxingly upon the spreading light ; a
match was kindled, and held towards the taper, the flame sprang up, and
a pleasant voice exclaimed gleefully as a child might have done : — ^' That's
it !" and then gradually, the eyes of Gerard accustoming themselves to
the light, after the recent obscurity, informed him that he was in a
moderate-sized apartment, strewed with different articles that bespoke
womanly occupation. A few books, some pencils, a work-basket, pens
and ink, an embroidery frame, a garden-rake, a knitting-box, a portfolio,
and some half-finished needle-work lay in that sort of neat negligence,
graceful litter, that is found only in a young girPs own sitting-room.

Before he had time to do more than glance round at the place in
which he found himself, Gabrielle had laid her hand upon the sleeve of
his soaked doublet ; and begging him to take it off, she stepped into an
inner room, unhooked from a peg a thick cloak which hung there, and
brought it him, to put on, while she took his wet garment to be dried.

" Give it me," she said in her easy manner, " that I may take it to
the kitchen-fire of the farm. The embers are still hot, I dare say. I
will not be gone long, but I must just step over, for I am longing to see
my father, and tell him I am come back. You will forgive me, I know.
I will be back in five minutes." So saying, she glided out of the door
by which she had entered ; and Gerard remained alone.

He had now leisure to examine the spot where he was. It seemed
to be a sort of summer-house, or pavilion, such as is frequently found,
built out in the garden, away from the house, in many parts of France.
It comprised two apartments ; for, beyond the one where Gerard was,
he could see another room. They opened from one to the other by a
small door, which had been left ajar by Gabrielle, when she had gone in
to fetch the cloak. The glimpse afforded through this half-open door
showed, by the white hangings which neatly draped an alcove opposite,
that this inner one formed a bed-chamber ; while the single snowy pillow
and general air of tasteful simplicity that reigned around, proclaimed
it to be Gabrielle^s own sleeping-room, as incontestably as the scattered
work, and other feminine confusion, bespoke the one in which he sat to
be her Ritting-room.

194 HELENA ;

He could scarcely forbear laughing at his whimsical situation, and at
the still more whimsical figure he cut, as he caught a glimpse of himself
in a looking-glass which hung near. His youthful head, with its thick
hair and coming moustache, peered above the folds of a woman's cloak.
It was the dark woollen one, fastened with a silver clasp, worn by
G-abrielle, in common with Frenchwomen of her class, in winter ; and
seemed as if only a snowy cap, or other feminine head-gear could crown
it appropriately. He thought, too, of the unexpected train of circum-
stances which had grown out of his walk that morning. Here he was in
a strange place, awaiting one, who, until that day, had been a stranger
to him, but who, henceforth, was to be intimately blended with his every
thought. He instinctively felt this, though it did not present itself in
so palpable a form to his mind.

Gerard's nature, unconsciously to himself, now for the first time m
his life met its kindred spirit. Hitherto^e had dwelt only with dispo-
sitions uncongenial with his own ; for although his filial reverence taught
him to construe his mother's weak passiveness into gentleness, and his
father's domineering selfishness into paternal guidance, yet the real tem-
perament of his parents, had, till now, been the unfavorable social
atmosphere in which the glow of his own feelings had been repressed
and sul lued. He had been accustomed to check and stifle warmth of
expression as something unsuited to the chilling damp that pervaded the
home circle ; but now he had met with one, who at once made him feel
unconstrained, unreserved, elate, happy

Gabrielle's manner was so peculiarly unreserved, so full of that frank
yet modest ease which sometimes belongs to youth brought up with
indulgence, that it inspired ease in him ; the young girl's simple un-
embarrassed demeanour placed him at once on terms of intimacy ; her
tone of sympathy and intelligence won his regard and confidence, and
the whole impression produced upon his feelings, was that one of repose,
of content, of comfort, of serene joy which belongs to a tried and
valued friendship. In this playful ease, this modest yet assured manner
of the young country girl, which awakened such welcome novelty of
happ'' feeling in G-erard's heart, lay the secret of her charm for him:

THE physician's ORPHAN. 195

bat as jet he knew it not ; he was content to yield himself implicitly to
the nnanalysed pleasure he felt ; to the joy of haying discovered such
a being ; to the happiness of her presence, her intercourse, herself

He sat there, indulging this kind of waking-dream — ^for it was rather
with the shadows and voluptuous impresses of thought, than with the
thoughts themselves that his fancy was luxuriating, — until the light
footsteps of Gabrielle announced her return.

" It was as I hoped ;" she exclaimed as she entered. " My father
had not been uneasy, concluding I staid at Monsieur le Curb's, all night,
on account of the shower. So I found him snug in bed ; where I would
have had him remain quietly ; but when he heard that Monsieur had been
so good as to see his child safe /home, he would needs get up and thank
him. So I am come to fetch you to the farm, to my father. It is only
at the other end of the garden. This is the old pavilion, which my
father has had fitted up, and lets me have for my own little homestead.
0, he is very indulgent to his Gabrielle — my kind old father ! Everybody
says he spoils her. He lets her have her own whims and fancies — her
own way in every thing — and that's so pleasant !"

The moon had risen now ; and as they once more crossed the garden,
her broad mild light shone clear upon flower, shrub, and fruit-tree, ren-
dering needless the friendly guiding hand which had before led Gerard
along the path.

He was in thought half regretting it, when Gabrielle said : — " You
need no leading now, which is fortunate, or you might have had some
difficulty in finding your way back to Perpignan ; but you can scarcely
miss it, in this clear moonshine, and the way is not intricate ; if you
follow the lane that bends a little to the right, leaving the wood on your
left hand, when you have passed the field or two beyond, the road is
nearly straight to the town."

In the kitchen of the farm, they found the old farmer, hospitably
intent on spreading a table-cloth, and preparing some homely refresh-
ment, to which he invited his guest in unceremonious but hearty terms.
He thanked him for bringing home his child in safety, in the same
manner ; and all his speech betokened the rough honest farmer. He

196 HELENA ;

spoke a broad country dialect, a strong patois, but his words were kindly,
though homely. He was as utterly devoid of polish or refinement, as
his daughter was singularly graceful and superior in air and knowledge
to her station ; though the one was no less natural than the other. But
she was simple, he was plain ; she was innocent, he was ignorant ; she
was candid, he was blunt ; she was intelligent, and had learned the hap-
piness of reading, he was unlettered, and cared for no knowledge be-
yond the culture of his fields, and the superintendence of his farm. He
was the mere rustic, she was the modest country-maid. The contrast
was almost as great between this farmer and this farmer's daughter, as
if the one had been a duchess and the other a cobbler ; but there were
some points in common between these two. Both father and child were
perfectly free from assumption of all sorts ; equally artless, equally un-
affected, equally sincere, and equally steady in affection for each other.

By the time the hasty supper had been discussed, Gerard's doublet
was thoroughly dry ; as he resumed it, and prepared to depart, resigning
Gkbrielle's cloak which had wrapped him so comfortably in his need,
many smiling words were exchanged between them all, of the help, and
the shelter, and the kindness that had been mutually interchanged that
dp.y.

Gkbrielle's father thanked the " bon jeune homme" for his care of
his daughter ; she thanked Oerard again for his ^' good company ;'' and
he thanked them both for their care, their good company, and their hos-
pitable kindness ; but in his heart were myriads of thanks that could
find no utterance towards her who had that day shed so sudden a flood
of light upon his existence. Often thus, lies profound gratitude, con-
cealed beneath light laughing words of courtesy — the bashful subterfuge
of a generous hypocrisy, that feigns less than it feels.

These unexpressed emotions served to bear him joyful company back
to Perpignan that night ; the way imperceptibly melted before him, as
he indulged the thought of how soon he hoped to retrace it ; no idea of
the lateness of the hour occurred to him, till he beheld the indignant,
drowsy face of the cross old porteress, who let him in when he reached
his father's porte-cochdre.

THE physician's ORPHAN. 197

* These young people !" he heard her matter ; " little they think of
as old ones at home I Fine times ! Fine hours I Fine goings-on t*'

He whispered some playful words, deprecatory of the ancient Cer-
beria's wrath ; but the next morning he had to encounter the f^r more
important displeasure of his father.

He met him for a few moments, just as Monsieur Gerard was issuing
forth, ready hatted and gloved, to proceed to the Banking-house, which
was at a short distance from his residence.

" You are late down to breakfast this morning, Gerard ; no wonder,
if you keep such late hours over-night. I hear it was much past mid-
night before you returned home. This does not encourage me to give
you a holiday again, in a hurry. De Yaumond is a young man of high
birth and connections, therefore I approve of your intimacy with him ;
but you must not allow his love of the gaming-table to make you forget
your proper hours for returning home at night. It is not the few paltry
6cvL8 you might lose, that I mind, — a lad of spirit, with a rich father,
can afford to spend his money as freely as a young nobleman, but I do
not choose to have my family hours altered."

" I met de Vaumond, it is true, sir," answered the son, " but "

'* There, let us have no more words about it, my boy," interrupted
Monsieur Gerard. " I choose you to be home before midnight, do you
hear? That's my will. Let it be observed. No more words, if yoa
please."

The banker stalked away ; and Gerard went to his College ; but that
day, his study was, for the most part, how he might best contrive time
for another visit to the farm.

And another and another visit did he contrive. Monsieur Gerard had
no more occasion to complain of late hours, either over-night, or at the
breakfast- table. Punctually at nine o'clock, the established hour for the
family to assemble at the morning meal. Gerard made his appearance,
looking animated, happy, and with a glow in his cheeks, that bespoke
early air and exercise. His parents remarked upon it with pleasure,
each after their peculiar fashion. His mother observed, ^^ she was glad
to find he had minded what his father said about late hours. Getting

198 HELENA ;

up early, and taking a walk, always made the sheeks bloonting ; and Ge*
rard's were absolutely like a rose."

His father, who was fond of taking his own views of the matter, and
assuming them as established facts, believed that his son was eager in
the pursuit of herbal botany, and had chosen these early hours for hit
rambles, that he might not interfere with time devoted to other branches
of medical study.

Besides, he had signified his desire that early hours should be ob-
served ; and Monsieur Gerard was one of those authoritative persona
who consider the announcement of their will as tantamount to its exe-
cution.

" The boy is quite right, Helena ;" said Monsieur Gerard in reply
to his wife's observation touching their son's improved looks. " He acts
in conformity with the advice of those who know what's best for him ;
and he finds his account in it, don't you, Gerard, my boy ?"

" I certainly find my delight in these early walks," answered he ;
" for I have found "

*^ 0 spare us the description of every weed and every blade of grass
you may have discovered, my good fellow ;" interrupted Monsieur
Oerard. " They are all rare specimens, I dare say, and may possess the
most inestimable virtues of the combined Pharmacopeia, for aught I
know ; but I'm content to take your word for it. Helena, my dear,
pass me that pigeon-pie ; I find more entertainment in exploring its
contents, monsieur le docteur, than in all your wild flowers that ever
were distilled to cure or poison mankind !" And Monsieur Gerard ac-
cordingly began to dig into the bowels of the pasty, selecting the choicest
morsels for his own plate, in his own important style. For the banker
always helped himself, as if fully conscious what was due to the rich
merchant, goldsmith, and banker of Perpignan, the father of a family,
and the master of his own house. He helped himself as if the chief
anxiety of all present, were bound up, with his own, in the fact of his
scouring those morsels best suited to his palate ; and as if what ho
might reject was sure to be good enough for others. Monsieur Gerard,
in helping himself from a dish, always gave you the idea that those por

JU^

THE physician's ORPHAN. 199

tions which he left, became scraps— orta — ^mere refase — unworthy of his
notice — ^though they might serve for those who came after him. When
he partook of an omelet he would cut the browned edges off with so
choice a hand, and deposit them on his plate with so nice an egoism of
discrimination and care, that the middle piece which remained lay there
on the dish, a mere unpleasant block of insipidity, for any one who chose
to take up with it ; but had he preferred the less done section, it would
have been just the same ; for then the solicitude with which he would
have lifted out the centre spoonful, and conveyed it with a steady hand,
a watchful eye, and suspended breath, to its destination for his own
peculiar discussion, would have converted the crisper edges into cindry
chips, parings, despised remnants, pushed aside, rejected and abandoned,
for any one that chose to collect them.

The confident unmisgiving air with which all this epicurean purvey-
ancing was carried on, imparted a solemnity and dignity to Monsieur
Gorard's eating, and Monsieur Gerard's taste, and Monsieur Gerard's
selection, which deprived it of any appearance of selfishness — at least,
neither his wife nor son was ever struck with it in that light ; for they
had been so accustomed to see him snifi" at, and closely inspect, and
pish-and-shaw at the dishes, and to hear him say : — " I'll try a bit of
this, I think " — or, " Let me see if I can manage one of these " — or,
" Perhaps I may fancy some of your dish, Helena, my dear, send it
round to me ;" that they had come to consider him as rather an ill-used
gentleman on the score of appetite, and one whom it was providential if
anything could be found to tempt and coax into eating at all.

In small matters, as well as in great ones. Monsieur Gerard was em-
phatically ^ master in his own house ;' and he liked to have his family
think, as well as act, according to his sovereign will and pleasure. If
he pitied and patronised his own appetite, as a poor one, and one that
required pampering and indulgence, it was the duty of those around him
to adopt his view of the matter — ^which they implicitly did. Monsieur
Gerard had hitherto enjoyed supreme and unquestioned domestic sway.

His son, Gerard, had no intention of concealing the real object of
his morning excursions from his parents ; on the contrary, his naturally

200 HELENA ;

frai^ temper would have led him to confide to them the new source of
joy he possessed in the discovery of Gkbrielle; he would have described
to them her graces of simplicity, candour, and intelligence ; he would
have dwelt with delight upon fhe charm her character possessed for him^
upon the feeling of amity and affectionate interest with which she in-
spired him ; but the manner in which every thing had been taken for
granted, and the total absence of all expressed sympathy, in leading
him to expatiate upon his new-found source of happiness, chilled and
discouraged him into silence. This had ever been the social existence
of Gerard ; till of an open disposition, it had well-nigh created a re-
served one.

But now, whatever might be the lack of sympathy in his home-
circle, none was wanting to make his hours spent at the farm those of
unalloyed happiness. There, he was always received with the same
cordiality, the same frank ease, the same friendly intimacy as that
which had marked the epoch of his first acquaintance with Oabrielle and
her father.

Calm and delicious were those pure summer mornings ! Secure
that however early might be the hour at which he could reach the farm,
its inhabitants would surely be stirring, he would rise from his bed with
the dawn, glide through the silent streets of the town, emerge into the
open country, traverse the dewy fields, behold the rising sun in his
glory, hail the face of gracious Nature in her fair beaming freshness,
whilst his heart, cheerful and devout, offered silent homage to the
Creator of all.

Then came the arrival ; the welcome ; the good-humoured hearty
farmer ; the honest labourers, exchanging a grinning bon-jour, for the
joung man's touch of the hat, or slap on the shoulder ; the lowing kine.
with their fragrant breath steaming forth into the morning air, standing
patiently to be milked, before going to pasture ; the busy clamour of
poultry, hurrying to be fed ; the hum of bees ; the scent of hay ; the
clattering of milk-pans ; the rustle of straw in the yard, amongst which
routed and grunted, in swinish luxury, some pigs, with their upturned
twinkling eyes ; the creaking and flapping of huge barn-doors, disclosing

THE physician's ORPHAN^ 20*

glimpses of scattered straw, piled logs, trusses of hay, grain, and high
cross-rafters, among which sparrows flew in and out, perching and twit-
tering ; the neighing of sleek plough-horses ; the cheerful barking of
dogs ; the swinging-to of gates ; the many sights, and smells, and sounds
that make & farm so pleasant a spot to the townsman, all greeted
Gerard's senses with an impression of delight and enjoyment.

Then, above all, came the meeting her. She would come hurrying
out from the porch, all smiles, and welcome, and beaming cordiality,
looking by far the most fresh, and bright, and sunny object in those
fresh, bright, sunny mornings. And then they would loiter about the
farm-yard together, watching the farmer give his instructions to the men,
congratulating him upon the flourishing condition of his farm, listening
to his proposed improvements, giving their occasional opinion, an4
interesting themselves in all that was going forward without doors
Then they would stroll through the garden, and linger near the bee
hives, and debate the probability of an approaching swarm, or stay and
peep at some sitting mother-bird who had built her nest in the clos<
hedge near the harbour ; or note the growth of some newly-set favorite
of Oabrielle's planting ; or watch the cool green shadows play and rip
pie on the surface of the small pond, while they idled on the brink side-
by-side, and Grerard saw mirrored in the cheeks of his companion th«
dimples on the water, in her eyes its liquid brightness, in her soul its
transparency, its clearness, and its purity. Then came half an hour in
the pleasant sitting-room of the pavilion. Gerard would here give
Gabrielle the book or print he generally brought for her ; he would
hear of the pleasure she had had in reading the last ; or of something
Monsieur le Cur6 had told her, when reading it to him ; or he would
look at the progress she had made, since the morning before, in her
drawing, and would perhaps add a touch or two, and suggest a few
more.

But however pleasantly the time might speed, Gerard never per-
mitted himself to forget its lapse, so as to trench upon the appointed
hour for his return. He told Gabrielle that he trusted to her for turn-
ing him out of doors when the sun should have reached the warning

202 HELENA ;

height ; and so, when its rays had travelled round a certain space in the
ohamher, and, resting in a certain angle, proclaimed that it was time to
depart, the pleasant voice said : — " See ! the sun heckons you to he go-
ing— or you will not reach home in time to welcome your mother down-
stairs, and lead her to the hreakfast-tahle."

Morning after morning thus passed away, in scenes so peaceful, in
thoughts so tranquil, in intercourse so calm, that Gerard had no sus-
picion of the change which Lad been wrought within himself; he sur-
mised not that this blissful sense of awakened existence, this powerful
impression of happiness which he hugged close to his heart aa a deeply-
treasured possession, a newly-acquired gift, was the result of a complete
revolution which had taken place in his own moral being. He knew not
that love had taken possession of his soul ; he knew not that love it was
which played in every breeze, which lured him forth to find fresh beauties
in Nature herself, which filled his heart with joy, his spirits with exulta-
tion, and which lent a new zest to every thought and every act. He
knew not that it was love which shed its radiance upon the image of
Gabrielle, and which fraught every idea of her with beauty and delight.
He believed that joys so pure and placid as- those he savoured during the
hours of morning, could originate with no emotion so powerful as love ;
he could not imagine that the contentment and serenity of mutual un-
derstanding which subsisted between himself and that young country
maiden, owed its existence to so imperious a feeling as love. He had
heard love described as turbulent, restless, exacting ; could he therefore
suspect that uneasy passion to have aught to do with the deep and
plenary satisfaction of her presence ?

But though unconscious of his own secret, it was soon to be dis-
covered to him in all its force, by means' less pleasant, though no less
potent than the promptings of his happy heart. A word of slight
towards her he loved, revealed to him the whole strength and truth of
that love.

One morning on his return from the farm he found his mother in
tears, and his father in a towering passion.

His entrance was the signal for a torrent of reproaches.

THE physician's ORPHAN. 203

" 0 Gerard, how oould you ?" — sobbed his mother.

'- Listen to me, sirrah ;" said his father, almost inarticulate with
rage. ** I find you have been deceiving me, — deceiving me, you young
mauvais sujet ! Know, that I happen to have seen the chevalier de
Yaumond ; that I have learned from him your idle low haunts, and
your trumpery companions. Not content with a vagabondizing walk,
and loitering about with boors and clowns, but you must needs fall to
dancing and romping with the peasant wenches."

*' Fie, Gerard ! How could you ?" again sobbed his mother.

" I never deceived you, sir ;" said Gerard, his eyes flashing at the
accusation of duplicity, and still more at the opprobrious terms in which
allusion had been made to his acquaintance with Gkbrielle. '' I never
sought to mislead you as to the manner in which I spent that day. You
yourself assumed that I had passed it wholly with de Yaumond ; and
stopped me when I would have explained the truth."

" The truth, boy, the truth ! Don't tell me of the truth I I say
you have not told me the truth all along ; for I'll be bound that's not
the only time you have been to this low village. De Yaumond told me
you seemed mightily taken with one of these wenches, some curate's
niece, or something of the kind — and I shouldn't wonder if you have
been to take a peep at her again ! Your morning walks, sirrah, your
morning walks ! Confess that they were to this same village, and that
your botanizing was all a pretence, all a sham !"

" I never pretended that botany was my motive for early rising ;"
replied Gerard. " Had you cared to know, sir, I should have told you
that my morning walks were to the farm, to see Gabrielle."

Gerard had spoken firmly though respectfully ; but his voice faltered
a little, as he concluded, with the reluctance natural to the utterance of
a beloved name in the presence of those we know to be prejudiced
against its possessor ; besides, he was just beginning to discover how
dear that possessor was to his own heart.

There was something in the young man's manner which made the father
pause, and consider him attentively. There was an air of manly reso-
lution taking the place of old boyish submission, wliich Monsieur Gerard

204 HELENA ;

had never before observed ; there was no filial deference wanting in the
tone, but it was mingled with an earnestness of meaning, a decision of
purpose that bespoke the existence of a strong internal motive. The
father felt instinctively that will was there to meet his own, and that it
was a man's will and not a child's will. Had his son grown from boy-
hood to manhood at a single hour's growth. Monsieur Gerard could
scarcely more palpably have seen the alteration, than he read the one
which had taken place in his son's mind from ductile youth to maturity.
He recognized the origin of the change and the evil, for such he felt it
to be, and resolved to deal with it at once. In the first place, he as-
sumed a tone of more condescending equality with his son, than he had
ever permitted himself to use before.

" And so Gabrielle is the name of this rustic charmer of yours, is it?"
said Monsieur Gerard, drawing a long breath at the conclusion of his
scrutiny. " And it was to see her that you could get out of bed so early,
and walk abroad a-mornings ! Upon my word ! I don't know, though,
that we ought to be angry with her, if she's the cause of such a reforma-
tion in our young mauvais sujet's habits." •

" Be assured, all her influences upon me are good — like herself;" said
Gerard eagerly.

" But the better she is, my dear Gerard," interrupted his mother,
'* the more considerate you ought to be for her ; the acquaintance of a
young man like yourself cannot but compromise her. You cannot marry
her, you know, and "

" Madame Gerard !" thundered her husband, *• what folly is this ?
Leave the room, if you cannot talk more to the purpose. When we are
by ourselves, Gerard and I shall soon come to an understanding about
this matter."

She prepared to obey, with a fresh burst of tears ; but as she passed
her son, she repeated her sobbing : — " 0 Gerard ! How could you ?
Tell your father you are very sorry — and are prepared to give up any
acquaintance he dislikes."

^^ Mother, I cannot say I am sorry for what makes the happiness of
B&7 life.''

THE PHYSICUN's ORPHAN. 2(MI

** Did you hear me speak, Madame Oerard ?" again stormed the
banker. " Leave us !"

" Now boy," resumed he, ^hen his wife had closed the door behind
her ; ^' let us hear all about this peasant girl. What sort of looking
wench is she ? But of course, a paragon of beauty — all young men's
first flames are Venuses !"

" She is no flame of mine ;" said Gerard hastily.

" No ? Morbleu, I'm glad to hear that ! By your manner, I feared
that you were entangled past all hope — shot through and through the
heart — over head and ears in love. Too absurd in a boy like you !
AUons," continued Monsieur Gerard, " this is some comfort, however, to
find that you have only had a passing fancy for picking up low acquaint-
ances : — but mind, it's a bad habit, and one that grows upon you, and I
want you to rise in the world, Gerard, my boy, and you won't do that by
associating with poor country curates and their hoyden nieces."

" I forgive your speaking in injurious terms of one you do not know,
sir ;" said Gerard. " But from what I said just now in hasty refutation
of your light manner of speaking of Gabrielle, you may be misled into
the belief that I do not love her. I would not have you deceived for an
instant, father ; I do love her, but I did not know until to-day how en-
tirely she possesses my love. Now that I know my own heart, I open
it to you. I do not ask you to sanction my afliection until you know its
object — ^but, once you have seen my Gabrielle, you will help your son ta
obtain her, as the best blessing life can afford."

" Ay, ay, we'll see this pretty rustic, and try what we can do to induce
her to be kind ;" said the French banker. " But mind, Gerard, if I
indulge you, in permitting you to choose your own acquaintances for
passing your idle toying hours, I expect you to conform to my wishes in
material points. The Chevalier de Vaumond is a man whom I approve
of as your friend ; and I hope shortly to introduce you to a young lady,
the daughter of a very old friend of mine, the Baron de Montigny, who
has been residing many years in Italy ; — ^and this young lady I should
wish you to make your best friend — ^your wife, Gerard."

" My wife, sir !" exclaimed Gerard. " I have been telling you my-
self, of the only woman whom I can ever make my wife."

206 HELENA ;

^^ Pooh, pooh, my dear fellow ; peasant wenches are not women tc
make wives of;" said Monsieur Gerard. "Understand me; I insist
upon it, that if I comply with pour whim of keeping up the acquaintance
of these villagers, you shall comply with my desire of seeing you married
to Mademoiselle de Montigny. It is a match upon which I have deter-
min^d, from your birth ; and I will be obeyed."

" Then I have plainly to declare, that this is a point in which I can-
not obey you, sir ;" said Gerard. " I never will marry any woman who
has not my whole heart ; and it is already given to Gabrielle."

His father again read, in the firm calm tone, and in the look which
met his own with unflinching regard, that his son was no longer a boy.

'' I'll tell you what, Gerard ;" said he. " You know that I am a man
accustomed to declare my will, and to see it accomplished. You know,
too, that I am a man of my word. Now, I give you my word of honor,
that if you don't marry according to my will, I'll strip you of every
farthing of allowance, withdraw you from college, ruin your prospects
in life, and reduce you to beggary, in short. So mark me, young man,
I give you four-and-twenty hours to decide between marriage to please
me, and your father's favor ; or marriage to please yourself, and beg-
gary,— with outlawry from home for ever, for I'll have no disobedience
in my house !"

And with this, the banker stalked out, leaving his son to consider
his words ; who, however, did not remain long in reflection, for he
snatched up his hat, and went out also.

'' The decision must rest with her ;" thought Gerard, as he took his
way to the farm. " If she does not fear beggary, why should I ? Be-
sides, beggary need not of necessity be our portion. Disinheritance
does not deprive us of our limbs, our faculties ; I can work, I can earn
bread, I can pursue my profession. With her — ^for her — what toil
would be painful ? Cheered by her presence, secure of her possession,
as a motive and a reward for exertion, how glorious then will be the
pursuit of an art so noble, — a profession so worthy ?"

" What was it he said ?'* he continued to muse, while a crimson spot
burned upon his cheek, as he recalled his father's words* — " < peasant

THE physician's ORPHAN. 207

girh are not women to make wives of P Monsieur Gerard did not dis
play his usual amount of worldly prudence in calculating the advantagei
of bargaining for such a woman as Oabrielle on fair terms. In the cleai
mind of such a wife, a man secures aid in forming his own judgments ;
in the natural good sense of such a woman, a man finds support and
encouragement in taking enlarged views of life ; he rises superior to
petty evils ; he gains strength of mind, and moral courage ; he learns
to eschew prejudice, to avoid enmities, to conquer difficulties, to achieve
fame, to win honor and consideration, to earn independence ; she at once
Induces and graces his advancement. In such a bosom-friend — such a
wife, — a man obtains the crown of his existence ; and it is such a friend
as this that a selfishness, as mistaken as it is sordid, would degrade into
a plaything for idle moments, a toy to be cast aside when sullied and
destroyed. It is the life-long amity and attachment of such a woman
as this, that a libertine would exchange for the mere -caresses of a pass-
ing hour. A sensualist cheats himself, as well as his victim. He robs
himself of a treasure, in seeking to filch a sparkling trinket. In seek-
ing to make such a woman as Oabrielle a wife instead of a mistress,
a man consults his own interest (which methinks might weigh with
the Perpignan banker) as well as his glory, his honor, and his hap-
piness."

" But I picture her to myself as a wife, and do I even know that she
loves me ? When I parted from her this morning, I knew not what
was passing in my own heart, and I perceived nothing in her manner
that should give me hope aught existed within hers, akin to my own
feeling. We were both happy friends — nothing more ; she brought me
my hat, and helped me to look for my gloves, and bade me hasten on my
way home, with the easy smiling air with which a sister might send a
brother forth, secure of seeing him again in a few hours. And so she
thought to see me, to-morrow ; but in still fewer hours I am returning.
She will not expect me. Shall I find her at the farm ? She may be
gone over to see Monsieur le Cur6."

He hastened on, impatient at the thought of her possible absence ;
and as if he would have detained her on the spot where he hoped to find

208 HELENA ;

her. Ho thought he could tell her all ho felt and all he hoped, best iti
that auiet pleasant sitting-room of hers, in the pavilion ;• as he thought
of all he had to speak, to entreat, he wished he might find her there, in
that retired spot, seoure h'om interruption, till he had poured forth all
his heart to her.

In such fancies did the young lover indulge, as he sped along the
well-known path ; when just as he reached an angle, where it turned ofF
abruptly into the wood, he saw, sitting under the trees, at a little dis-
tance, Gabrielle herself

The sight of her, thus unexpectedly, and with the thought of all
that he had discovered of his own feelings towards her, since he had last
parted, in the calmness of friendship, held him for a second, endeavour-
ing to check the tumult of his heart, which now beat high with its
newly-conscious emotion.

From the spot where he first perceived her, he could see her without
being seen ; and, in the pause of a second that he made, he witnessed
that which held him breathless for some seconds longer. He saw Ga-
brielle put softly to her lips some object that she held in her hand, fon
die it to her cheek, press it between her palms, and then kiss it again
and again tenderly — nay, passionately. He was burning to ascertain
what this object of her caresses could be, when in smoothing it out upon
her knee, and drawing it on to her own little hand, he discerned it to be
one of his gloves, which had been mislaid that morning, and which was
nowhere to be found when he was about to return home.

He was just springing forward, when his steps were arrested by
hearing others approach hurriedly through the trees, in the direction of
thQ farm.

In another moment. Petit Pierre came brushing and rustling through
tho underwood, bawling Gabrielle's name, panting and out of breath.
But before the lad came up, Gerard had beheld the glove hastily,
though securely, concealed in Gabrielle*8 bosom.

" 0 I'm so glad you hadn't got far. Mademoiselle," said the cowboy
^ Your father guessed you had set out upon your way to Monsieur !e
Curb's, and bade me run after yon, and see if I couldn't overtake you

THE PHTSICIAN's ORPHAN. 209

and bring you back ; be wants to speak to you about those rose-bushes
that he is going to have removed from before the dairy-window ; he says
they're in the way there, and he wishes to know where you*d best like
to have them transplanted."

" I'll come back with you directly, Pierre ;" said Gabrielle, rising
from her grassy seat As she did so, she perceived Gerard, who ad-
vanced to meet her. With her usual frank grace she congratulated
herself and him upon his having been able so soon to return, imagining
that some college holiday permitted this excursion.

•• And I hope you have the whole day to spare us ;" said she. " We
will return with Petit Pierre, to see what my father proposes, and to
settle with him the best new place for the rose-trees ; and then, if you
please, we'll go over to Monsieur le Curb's together. I was on my way
to show him this beautiful ' Clotilde de Surville' which you brought me
yesterday."

The hearty farmer seemed as well pleased as his daughter to see the
' bon jeune homme' so soon among them again. Gerard had become a
great favorite with the old man ; he liked his sincere straightforward
manners, and his unaffected cordiality ; while the warm interest which
he took in all matters that related to the farm and its inhabitants, and
the liking he displayed for simple rural pleasures, pleased the country
man, and won his regard.

The affair of the removal of Gabrielle's rose-trees was soon arranged
to the mutual satisfaction of the assembled trihominate; and then, while
the farmer went off to his barns, Gerard and Gabrielle sauntered through
the garden towards the pavilion.

'' I have told Babette to take some strawberries and cream there for
us ," said Gentille-et-sage ; '^ I thought you would like to sit in the
shade and eat some fruit before we set out for Monsieur le Guru's. I
think I will pop a little pot of cream in a basket for the dear old man ;
and we'll carry it to him. And I think I can find room for a fowl and
some new-laid eggs, and we'll ask him to give us some dinner, shall we?'

" With all my heart ; and jet " Gerard paused.

Gabrielle asked him archly if his hesitation proceeded from the

LIO Helena;

weight of the basket he would have to bear ; ^^ for I give you warning/
said she, ^' that I mean to let you carry it by far the greater part of the
way."

" I willingly engage to let you carry it no step of the way yourself;"
said he. '^ It was not the basket that weighed upon my mind ; but I
feel some scruples of conscience, I own, in accepting a second feast at
the hands of Monsieur le Cur6, when I have it in my hope to ask of his
bounty a boon of surpassing worth."

^' Indeed !" said Oabrielle. '^ This sounds like a secret. You must
promise to tell me what it is that you are going to ask of Monsieur le
Cur6, — I long to know. In the first place, I never had any secrets,
either of my own or anybody else's, to keep — and there must be some-
thing very grand and very pleasant in having a secret ; and in the next
place, I can perhaps help you in obtaining this favor from him ; though
he is such a kind old darling, he never can find it in his heart to refuse
anybody anything."

" And yet this is a very, very great favor — the most valuable of all
gifts. Still, you promise me your help— and your help is everything —
nay, unless you, Gabrielle, grant me the boon first, I cannot ask it of
Monsieur le Cur6."

^' Tell me, tell me ; I am all impatience," said she, '^ to learn this
secret ; tell mc what is the gift you mean to ask of Monsieur le Cur6."

" I want him to give me a wife ;" said Gerard.

A rapid succession of emotions was visible upon the clear artless
face of the country girl. First there was the sudden wonder at so new
an idea presenting itself to her, as Gerard's marriage ; then the pallor
which the thought of his loss occasioned, was replaced by a flood of rosy
color which suffused her cheeks, brow, and neck, with the dawning con-
4ciousuess of who was really the woman he desired for the wife he sought
of the Cur6.

" You may havie failed to discover my love — I learned not its depth
myself, until to-day, my Gabrielle," said the young man, pouring forth
his words in hurried passionate accents ; '^ still, you cannot but have
perceived how my happiness has grown since I have known yon, how

THE physician's ORPHAN. 211

my soul has knit itself to yours, bow my grateful heart has exulted in
the regard you have accorded me, in the gentle interest you have shown,
in the affectionate tone you have permitted to subsist between us. You
may have mistaken these tokens of my feelings for those of esteem, of
friendship merely — till my father's words opened my eyes this morn-
ing, I mistook them for such myself — ^but 0, Gabriclle, believe that
the esteem, the friendship I feel for you have all the warmth of love —
of love only — and it is as the partner of my existence — ^as the crown
of all my hopes — as my wife, that I beseech you to give me yours in
return."

Gabrielle drooped her head, instead of replying to her lover's passion-
ate appeal, and for the first time since she had known Oerard, her looks
failed to respond to his. She seemed to be struggling for courage to
strengthen herself against his pleading.

'^ Tour father's words !" she faltered ; ^^ then he refuses to sanction
your love."

" His prejudices are worldly — he is unjust — ^he does not know your
worth, my Gabrielle," said her lover.

"A father's prejudices deserve consideration;" said the low voice of
Gentille-et-sage.

" But not to the destruction of a son's happiness ;" said Gerard. " Not
when they interfere to sever those that love each other. My Gabrielle
would not have me abide by a parent's prejudices when they bid me
marry where I cannot love. Surely, mutual love has sacred claims of
its own?"

" Ay, mutual love ;" murmured Gentille-et-sage, persevering with
what she conceived to be the duty of refusing one who sought her
against his father's will, she strove to resume her old tone of archness
and easy gaiety, " you speak of mutual love ; but though you have told
me of your own, I have not told you of mine. Pray who told you that
I have any love for you ?"

'* My own eyes ;" said Gerard. " Although my Gabrielle will not
tell me that her heart has understood mine, that she has read its depth
of affection beneath the smiling ease of our late happy friendship, al

212 vsLKSA ;

though she will not generouBly own that her lore exists as truly as mine .
•till I do not despair."

<^ And where is your hope, audacious?" asked the blushing and
smiling Ghibrielle, who could not resist the happy confidence of Gkrard*fl
eyes.

" llere ;" said he, drawing his odd glove from his pocket. " I hare
found my missing glove — the fellow to this one. I know where it is, at
this instant."

The hand of Gentille-et^^age stole towards the convicted boddioe,
which fluttered and heaved with the consciousness of harbouring ab-
stracted goods. For a moment she sat thus, the picture of innocent
guilt, covered with blushes of mingled modesty, gladness, confusion, and
happy love revealed ; then without raising her eyes, she drew the de-
tected glove forth from its concealment, took its fellow from her lover,
and folding them one in the other, replaced them thus both together in
the same sweet hiding-place.

Gerard was not slow to read this mute troth-plight, and confession
of her love ; but, with a lover's true avarice, which exacts fresh indul-
gence with each new evidence of affection, he rested not until he had
obtained a spoken avowal, which Gabrielle gave him in her own simple
ingenuous manner.

He, in return, frankly told her that he had no wealth to offer her,
save his resolve to earn independence, by unremitting industry in the
acquirement and pursuit of his profession ; but if she would share in
his early struggle, and become at once his rnoentive and reward, he
doubted not of success. He did not conceal from her the alternative
offered by his father's severity ; but he knew enough of Gabrielle, to
feel secure that the loss of present fortune consequent upon incurring
Monsieur Gerard's displeasure, caused no part of her hesitation — ^whioh
had proceeded solely from dread of inducing a son's disobedience.
Gerard did not falsely calculate the motives and principles of her he
loved.

Nor was it long before he succeeded in vanquishing her scruples on
his father's aooount ; in persuading her that she owed more considera*

THE physician's ORPHAN. 21 &

tion towards one sbe knew and loved, than towards one she had never
seen ; in pleading his cause, with love's own casuistry, so well, in short,
that he gained her leave to ask her of her fathor at once, and, if he
should sanction their union, her promise to resume the former plan of
going over to Monsieur le Curb's that very morning.

The hearty farmer, when he found the object with which the young
people sought him, only said : — ^^ Ask Gabrielle, men bon jeune homme,
ask her ; if she be pleased. I am pleased. If she can be happy with
you for a husband, I shall be happy to have you for a son-in-law."

And soon the lovers were on their way to the village where Monsieur
le Cur6 lived ; nor were the fowl, the eggs, nor the cream forgotten,
though there was happiness enough to have made it very excusable,
even had the basket been left behind.

" And now to ask you of your second father, my Gabrielle ;" said
Gerard. " We must obtain his consent to bestow you upon me at once ;
for I am resolved not to return home till I am able to tell my father not
only my irrevocable decision, but that my happiness in life is as irrevo-
cably decided as my choice."

^^ Heaven send that it may be indeed your happiness which is thus
decided by your choice," said Gentille-et-sage ; *' but you must promise
me to return home straight from Monsieur le Curb's, instead of seeing
me back to the farm ; it will be only just to your father to tell him of
your decision at once."

" The farm is my home now," said Gerard. " I know my father too
well, not to be quite sure that he will abide by the alternative ho hap
fixed."

" Still it is your duty to inform him which alternative you have
chosen ;" said Gabrielle.

" You are right ;" said her lover. " It is only honest to let him
know which marriage I have chosen ; it is for him to say whether he will
not remit the other part of the sentence."

" Ay, he may think better of it, and change outlawry into forgiveness
and welcome ;" said Gabrielle, with the sanguine hope of youth, and of
one who had never known other than indulgence from her own parent.

314 HELENA ;

Gerard shook his head. '^You do not know mj father — I do.
However, I will go ; he shall, at any rate, have the option of a kinder
fiat. But remember, ma mie, should it prove a harsh one, you must
prepare to receive an outcast at the pavilion this evening. Whether my
sentence be amnesty or banishment, I shall return to the farm directly
it has been pronounced."

^ Where you shall find either gratulation or comfort ;" said Gentille-
ei-flage, with one of her sweet frank smiles.

When they reached Monsieur le Curb's cottage, they found the old
man in his garden ; a jug of fresh spring-water was in his hand, from
which he was preparing to fill a shallow vessel, that he always kept sup-
plied for the accommodation of the birds.

" I love to bring them about me," said he ; " and plenty of water for
them to drink and bathe in, is as welcome to them in summer, as strewed
crumbs are in the winter ; so, as I have not a pond in my garden, as
you have in yours, Q-entille-et-sage, I have bethought me of this plan for
letting them dip their dainty beaks, and plunge, and flounce, and flutter
their wings and feathers to their hearts' content. I am glad to see yoU)
mon cher monsieur. What is that you have in your basket, Gentille-et^
sage? Something very nice, as usual, for the old man's dinner. I
thought so, you little rogue ! Well, we must get Jeanneton to make us
a fricandeau and an omelet, out of these good things ; and we shall have
quite a feast, shan't we ?"

'' And I am sure Madame Jeanneton will exert her best skill, Mon-
sieur le Cur6," said Gerard, " when she knows it is to be a wedding-
dinner."

The old man looked at him ; then at the dimpling blushing face of
Gentille-et-sagc ; and said : — ^' Ah, ha, is it even so ? I thought as much,
I declare, when I used to see this little rogue turn her head away every
time I asked her whether she had seen that good young Monsieur Ge-
rard lately. Ah, ha ! the old man is very cunning — he knows Gentille-
et-sage cannot tell an untruth, and so he used to ask her this on purpose
to see her look down and own that the jeune monsieur had been to the
(arm that morning. *And yesterday?' *Yes, mon pdre.' 'And the

THE FHTBICIAN's ORPHAN. 215

day before?' ^Yes, mon pere.' Ah, ha! I thought what all these
^ yes, mon peres/ and all these visits would end in. Ah, ha ! the old
man is very sly, and can see many things that Oentille-et-sage fancies
she keeps very snug, sage as she is ! And what say your parents to this
marriage, my children? What says your father, Gabrielle ? What says
yours, mon cher jeune monsieur ?"

The whole state of affairs was candidly stated to the good priest ;
and his simplicity could not find any objection to offer against oon*
senting to join two young people who loved each other, and who
availed themselves of a granted alternative between poverty and sepa-
ration.

He united their hands ; and a few hours after Gerard and Gabrielle
had been made man and wife, they took their respective paths to Per-
pignan,'and to the farm, consoling themselves for this temporary part-
ing, in the thought of the duty that demanded it, in the reflection that
they were now beyond the power of fate to divide them, and in the hope
of meeting again ere close of day.

Not thus speedily, however, was their hope fulfilled. When the
young man reached his father's house, Monsieur Gerard had not re-
turned from the banking-house. As the best means of controlling his
impatience, Gerard betook himself to his own room, and endeavoured to
fix his attention upon a medical treatise which he had been diligently
studying of late. But now the pages failed to convey any meaning tc
him ; Iiis brain refused to receive any definite impression from the sen-
tences he read ; the lines waved and swam before his eyes, the words
danced hither and thither, and formed themselves into fantastic images
of Gabrielle's eyes, her hair, her mouth, her smile, every varied look of
her countenance, every movement of her graceful figure. But he was
not long detained thus. He heard his father's step in the corridorj —
which led to Monsieur Gerard's room as well as his own, — and stepping
forwards, thus addressed him. " Father, you accorded me twenty-four
hours to decide on the alternative you offered me this morning. But as
my mind is made up, I would not an instant defer the avowal of my
choice."

216 HELENA ;

'^ Then it is your choice, and not mine, that you determine to abide
by, is it?" said Monsieur Gerard, in his usual mode of forming his own
conclusions. " But I will take good care you shall have no ot)portun:ty
of carrying out your absurd determination."

So saying, the banker furiously slammed-to the door of his son's
apartment, and turned the key in the look, while Gerard hastily ex*
claimed : — ^^ Father, I am already married !" But Monsieur Gerard
made far too much noise in his enraged departure, to hear the exclama-
tion ; and his son could hear him repeating, as he strode along the cor*
ridor : — ^' No, no ; no, no ; I'll take good care you shan't carry out your
fool's intention, sirrah !"

Gerard sprang to the door, and shook it ; but it was too surely &8-
tened. He threw up the window — ^but there were too many feet between
it and the ground, for even his eagerness to venture the leap.

He paused and listened ; he heard the family assembling for the
erening meal — he heard the opening and shutting of the dining-room
door — he heard the domestics moving to and fro — and he determined to
rein his impatience until one of them should be sent with his allotted
portion, if it was indeed intended that he should be treated in all re*
spects like a prisoner. But possibly Monsieur Gerard thought that a
little wholesome fasting might not be amiss in helping a refractory
spirit to due submission ; for hour after hour passed, and no one came
near the delinquent's chamber. Evening closed in ; nightfall came —
and still Gerard remained in solitude and darkness, pacing his room like
a caged lion, his spirit fretting against this tyrannous confinement,
while his thoughts, emancipating themselves as his body would fain have
done, winged their way towards the pavilion of the farm, where he knew
sat one watching through the starlit night for his coming. Morning
dawned. ^ Patience," murmured the prisoner to himself; ^^he will not
let me starve, and when he sends me food, I will make an appeal to my
gaoler, whoever it may be whom he has appointed to the office."

But noon came before food was sent. It was bread and water ; and
was brought by one of the lackeys of his father's household.

" Jerome," said Gerard, " tell my father that I "

THE physician's ORPHAN. 217

The lackey shook his head, and hastily withdrew, leaving a small
note on his young master's table.

The note was from Monsieur Gerard, and contained these words :—

" Gerard,

When you are prepared to conform in all things to my pleasare^
you may signify as much to me in writing — ^but till then, I forbid your
tampering with my domestics, by addressing them under pretence of
sending messages to me. Jerome has orders to bring you your daily
meal in silence.

" Your offended father,

"Antoine Gerard."

" My daily meal !" So then I shall not see Jerome again till noon
to-morrow !" thought Gerard. " This is starving me out with a ven-
geance ! Hoping to reduce strength of will and strength of body upon
bread and water ! Prudent discipline ! And this is how my father
thinks to compel obedience ! Is this how he thinks to exact compliance 7
Rebellion, contumacy, unnatural disaffection may rather be generated
by such means, than filial reverence and submission."

As the afternoon wore away, Gerard was sitting in another hopeless
attempt to chain his attention to the study of his treatise, when a slight
noise, near tl*e entrance of his room, attracted his notice, and upon look-
ing in that direction, he descried a paper packet, which was gradually
making its way beneath the door, thrust by some furtive hand. He
seized the paper, which he found contained an iron nail, and these
words : —

'* Monsieur desired me not to speak or to listen to you — ^but he did
not forbid me to write (which I luckily can do), or to give you the means
of pushing back the lock of your door. I don't like to see my young
master shut up and forced to live upon bread and water — ^I like liberty
and good eating myself — ^a man hasn't a fair chance or a free choice
without 'em. " Jerome."

Gkrard hastily secreted this welcome paper, and availed himself of
the means of escape. He soon found himself outside in the corridor,
along which he glided with noiseless steps, down the great staircase, into

218 HELENA ;

the hall, where he was startled by hearing his father's voice. But it
proceeded from the saloon, where Monsieur Gerard was entertaining
a party of guests. At that moment, Gtsrard caught sight of Jerome, whc
was beckoning to him with one hand, while with the other he held his
fingers to his lips. Gerard followed him in silence ; and Jerome, lead-
ing him hastily through a passage that communicated with the servants'
offices, darted into a small closet near the larder, emerged again with a
basket in his hand, went on towards a deserted yard in the rear of the
house, across which he preceded Gerard at a rapid pace, until he reached
a little cobwebbed, unused door, that opened into a back street. Here
he paused, and thrusting the basket into Gerard's hand, unlocked the
door, pointed through it, and enforced his meaning, by taking his young
master by the shoulder, and amicably turning him out.

Gerard, hardly able to help laughing at the man's whimsical adher-
ence to the letter of his master's orders while he thus zealously infringed
their spirit, lost no time in hurrying along the unfrequented back street,
from which he made his way out of the town, and was speedily on the
road to the farm.

In the basket, Gerard found substantial evidence of Jerome's opinion
that a man needs better fare than bread and water ; and as he walked
briskly along, he had an opportunity of enjoying that worthy domestic's
favorite combination of liberty and good eating.

The short twilight that succeeds a southern sunset had yielded to
the shades of evening by the time Gerard reached the farm. He threaded
the bowery lane which skirted the premises, in the hope that the little
door in the garden-wall might have been left unfastened for his access.
It was as he hoped. '^ I am expected ;" he thought, as the door yielded
to his hand. He pushed through the clustering bushes and fruit-trees,
that hung their boughs athwart the narrow garden-path. He sprang up
the st^ps that led into the pavilion. It was empty — she was not there.
But the intermediate door that led into the inner room was partly open ;
and as Gerard's eye caught sight of the ttao pillows, which now peered
among the neat white draperies of the alcove, his heart again whispered *
— " I am expected."

TUE physician's ORPHAN. 219

The stars shone clear in the blue arch of heaven ; in at the open
easment stole the soft breeze of evening, rich with the perfume of fruit
and flower ; no sound broke the stillness ; and purity and peace seemed
to hover with their angel wings around this sequestered spot.

Gerard hears a light footstep ; he can discern a coming figure ; he
leans from the window, and as she approaches beneath, he drops his
glove with true aim. Gabrielle instinctively retains it, recognizes the
tokens of his presence, looks up, sees him, — at a bound is on the top
step, and the next instant is clasped in her husband's arms.

For a few happy weeks did Gerard permit himself to linger in this
quiet pavilion, making it his dwelling-place, and the scene of his wedded
joys ; but with his characteristic honesty, he would not allow himself to
lose sight of the strict course of duty he had marked out for himself,
by yielding to the too-seductive idleness of such a retirement. Accord-
ingly he roused himself from his blissful dream of existence, and im-
parted to his wife a plan he had conceived for commencing a more active
life, and one which should be the means of fulfilling his hope of earning
independence and fame.

At Narbonne there lived an old doctor, who was Gerard's godfather.
Much deference had formerly been paid to this old doctor's opinions
by the Perpignan banker; for Doctor Dubrusc was esteemed wealthy,
and in the hope of gratifying a rich godfather, as well as that his son
might be brought up to a profession instead of trade. Monsieur Gerard
had sent his son to college, to study with an ultimate view to a doctor's
degree. But in course of time, it came to be discovered, or rather
Monsieur Gerard came to one of his conclusions upon the subject, that
the reputation which Doctor Dubrusc had gained for being a man of
wealth, was merely fpunded upon his eccentricity, — his peremptory man-
ner, his repulsive brevity, his indifference to the opinion of others, his
reserve, his solitary habits, his wilfulness — all which traits had been
considered indicative of the conscious possessor of wealth, as it was sup*
posed that a poor man would not have dared to indulge in such unpro-
ductive whims of conduct. Circumstances arose which occasioned
Monsieur Gerard t o adopt his new view of the matter, and to believe

220 HELENA ;

tiiat after all, Doctor Dubruso was one of those absurd beings who con
sent to resign all worldly advantage, for the one delight of carrying oul
their own humour, and who, in consequence, remain paupers to the end
of their days. When once Monsieur Q^rard had made up his mind
that this was the case, the connection with the old Narbonne Doctor
had been gradually but decidedly dropped.

The last time that Gerard had seen his godfather was at the college
at Perpignan, on the day when he had completed his twelfth year. The
boy had been summoned to see a visitor, and found Doctor Dubrusc
standing in the room appropriated to guests.

Gerard showed sincere delight at seeing thus expectedly one i? jom
he remembered as a child ; but when he pulled a chair for the old man,
who stood there stock still and begged him to sit down. Doctor Du-
brusc only mumbled : — " Not tired ;" proceeded to look his godson
steadily in the face for a minute or two, ending his scrutiny with an
emphatic '^ Humph !"

" You will go with me to my father's, sir ; I can obtain leave to go
with you, directly, I know," said Gerard. "He will be glad to see you."

" Don't want to see him ; shan't call ;" said Doctor Dubrusc. " Did
want to see you — have seen you — that's all !" And the old man turned
on his heel, and was going straight out of the room.

" 0 don't go ! Don't go ! I've seen nothing of you yet I Don't
go, doctor !" said Gerard.

'^ Want to see me,— come !" said the doctor without turning back ;
and in another moment he was gone.

Gerard had often thought of this singular visitation of his god-
father ; an4 had as often begged his father's permission to go to Nar-
bonne to see one whom he had always liked, spite pi his oddity.

But Monsieur Gerard had no notion of sending his son so far merely
to comply with a boy's wishes, and with those of a dictatorial old man,
who had no right of opulence to entitle him to indulgence ; so year
after year had passed away without Gerard having seen any more of
his godfather, though he frequently regretted this abrupt termination of
their interooorse.

THE fhtsician's orpsan. 221

Now he relate to Gabrielle the circumstanoes conoerning this god
father ; and he told her he thought that if this eccentric old doctor
would consent to take him as a pupil, and conclude what had been well
commenced at college, ho should shortly be in a condition to commence
practice as a physician.

^'It is asking a sacrifice at your hands, my Oabrielle" said her
husband, '- to propose your leaving your father, your friend and second
father, the CurS, and your native home, to go and settle iu a strange
place ; but in Narbonne, with Doctor Dubrusc's instruction and counsel,
I feel sure of a career which must bring us independence. Who
knows? I may one day see you the wife of a famous physician. One
day I may win a surname that shall serve to reconcile my father to his
denounced son. Should I live to be called Doctor Gerard de Narbonne,
it will replace the family name, which, if my father still retain his ire.
he may wish me to resign ; in any case, it cannot fail to please him,
and would gratify his pride. I have courage to ask this sacrifice of my
Gabrielle ; for I have good hope that honor and wealth await us in
Narbonne."

Oabrielle for an instant thought how willingly she could resign any
prospect of worldly advantage, so that she might still abide in this
peaceful spot, the scene of her childhood sports, her indulged youth, her
happy bridal hours ; but she felt that it might be otherwise with her
husband, whose energy and talent required a broader field — and whose
honest spirit naturally sought self-earned support. She felt that though
she could be well content to owe all to a parent's bounty, yet Gerard's
sense of probity might shrink from trespassing farther on the generosity
with which her father had hitherto accorded them a home — a home which
his own exertions .might obtain. She felt that she had no right to re-
press his honorable ambition, by the utterance of her own limited wishes,
and she said : —

" Then let us go to Narbonne, dear Gerard."

Gerard accordingly wrote to Doctor Dubrusc, stating the fact of his
iiipture with his father in consequence of his marriage ; and asking his
godfather if he would consent to aid a disinherited son (w1 o had oom*

222 HELENA ;

mitted no crime but availing himself of an offered alternative) to acquire
bonest competence for his wife and himself

Gerard also wrote to his father, stating his marriage, and expressing
his hope that he might one day achieve distinction, which should restore
him to favor, and obliterate the remembrance of his haying attempted
this achievement in a manner opposed to his father's views; but n<?
notice was taken of his letter, then, or ever.

To the former application, Gerard received the following concise
epistle in reply : —

" Told you before—* Want to see me-^-come I' "

" Blaise Dubrusc."

Gabrielle could not help thinking this a little unpromising ; but
seeing her husband look disconcerted, she said cheerfully, ^' Well, we
can go and see him, at any rate ; he may take a kinder interest in us,
when we are there, than his words seem to infer."

After many an affectionate leave-taking had been exchanged between
the young couple and their two kind old fathers, Monsieur le Cur6, and
the farmer, Gerard and Gtibrielle set out for Narbonne. Arrived there,
the young man lost no time in hunting out the obscure lodging in which
it pleased Doctor Dubrusc to abide.

He found him, after toiling up six flights of stairs, in a dilapidated
old mansarde, where he sat environed with musty volumes, cobwebs,
dust, dirt, and snuff.

^' Humph ! There ; are you ?" was his remark, as he raised his head
from his book, on Gerard's entrance and salutation.

Having given the youth one finger, dry, dusty, and colourless as a
bit of touchwood, which was his way of shaking hands, he jerked his
head towards a chair, and said ** Sit down I"

Gerard complied, by lifting several tomes on to the floor from one of
the only two chairs, that were in the room besides Doctor Dubruso's,
drawing it forward, and seating himself. These two chairs had been long
unaccustomed to support any other weight than that of books ; and this
one, beneath its unwonted human deposit, creaked resentfully and omin-
ously, as if it intended to snap, give way, and come down, with a mali
clous fracture.

THE PHTSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 223

No such catastrophe occurred, however, and Doctor Dubrusc inter-
rupted something Gerard was saying in acknowledgment of his permis*
sion to come and see him, and in explanation of his having been unable
to do so before, by saying : — " Tell me your story."

Gerard faithfully related all that had happened from the time he had
last seen Doctor Dubrusc at Perpignan, on his birthday, to the present
moment of his arrival at Narbonne.

" What d'ye intend to do ? What d'ye want me to do ?" were the
doctor's next words.

Gerard explained his views, his wishes, his hopes ; to all of which
Doctor Debrusc listened, and when the young man concluded, said : —
^^ Humph !" and turned round from him, and stared blankly at the op-
posite wall.

" Will you help me, sir ? Will you advise me ? Will you lei me
study under you, and commence practice under your direction ?" said
Gerard.

" Yes. Come to-morrow. Go now." And Doctor Dubrusc re-
sumed the perusal of the book over which he had been leaning when
Gerard came in.

Next morning, Gerard returned early to Doctor Dubrusc, who had
sketched out a course of study for his godson, and set his pupil down to
commence its pursuit at one end of the dusty table, while he himself
hung over his book at the other.

Before the young man settled doWn to his work, he was beginning
to say something of his first impression of the town of Narbonne, and of
the quarter he had chosen in seeking a lodging for Gabrielle and him-
self, when Doctor Dubrusc, without raising his eyes from his own book,
but pointing to those whi<lh lay before Gerard, stopped him with : —
" Don't talk. Learn.'*

For some hours Gerard worked diligently, and in obedient silence.
Then the old doctor looked up and said : — ^^ Qo now. Come to-
morrow."

His godson rose, and was withdrawing, when he returned to the
writing-table, and said : — ^ I am anxious to present my wife to you, bit
that she may add her thanks to mine, for your kind help."

224 HELENA ;

* Wife ? Pshaw ! What's the use of a wife ? But go now. Gome
fco-morrow."

Having entertained his wife with an account of the old doctor's
eccentric ways, Gerard agreed with her, that the benefit of his aid more
than compensated for the strange style in which it was extended, and
that his instruction was far too valuable a gift to be received without
gratitude ; so they resolved that Gabrielle should venture to accompany
Gerard to his godfather's den on the morrow.

When she entered the room, the old doctor started, and rose from
the arm-chair in which he always sat, at the table.

He advanced to the middle of the room, where he stood stock still,
staring at her, while she, in simple graceful words, and with a blushing
face, where smiles played in both eyes and mouth, uttered her thanks
for his goodness to them both. She could not help these smiles, at the
recollection of all she had heard of the old doctor's oddity ; which, con-
firmed by his present reception of herself, rendered a decorous gravity
impossible.

But Doctor Dubrusc, after continuing to stare at her for a few
minutes longer, suddenly said : — ^' Humph ! Good and pretty !" Then
advancing a step or two nearer, said : — " Very !" Then abruptly turn-
ing on his heel, he made his way back to his seat at the table, over
which, looking, as if from a safe intrenchment, he said : — " No women
here ! Go away !"

Gabrielle left the room ; and Doctor Dubrusc, looking at his godson,
added : — ^^ Can't study with 'em. Send her away !"

Gerard hastened out after his wife, and found her sitting on the
stair, at the bottom of the first flight. As he caught sight of her droop-
ing head, he thought she might have beA disconcerted, perhaps cha-
grined, at this unpropitious reception and summary dismissal, but on
coming close to her, he found she was only indulging in a hearty fit of
laughing ; of which she was endeavouring to suppress the sound, lest it
might reach the queer old man's ears.

'^ He is so droll, Gerard ;" whispered she, with eyes brimming in
Qiirthful tears. '' He is so very odd I" How do you ever manage to

THE physician's ORPHAN. . 25^

keep your countenance, while you are studying with him — or to learn
any thing of so strange a creature ? How does he manage to teach
you, with such sparing speech ?"

And in truth it was marvellous how Gerard contrived to acquire so
much, or his godfather to impart so much of knowledge, as they both
did in the course of the months which followed the young couple's ar-
rival in Narbonne. But certain it is, that though scarcely more than a
dozen words were ever exchanged between master an I pupil in the
course of their daily studies, yet before a twelvemonth had elapsed,
Gerard was more proficient in his art than many physicians who have
practised for a series of years. Perhaps there are not wanting sly
sceptics in the merits of the generality of medical professors who will
think this is saying but little in favor of the young doctor's skill ; but
the fact was, that Gerard became within the space of time stated, nc t
only master of a large amount of theoretical learning, but he had gained
some practical experience in his profession, for he was already consulted
and esteemed by a circle of patients.

These were mostly poor people, it is true, who could not afford large
fees ; so that Gerard and his wife still occupied the humble lodging they
had taken on their first arrival in Narbonne ; but they were happy in
each other, and the size or grandeur of their household formed no part
of their consideration.

Yet although a larger house, finer furniture, or a better-supplied
table had no share in Gabrielle's estimate of what might be wanting to
complete her comfort, she could not but sometimes feel that incomplete-
ness to exist.

Carefully she strove to conceal this feeling from her husband ; she
strove even to conceal it from herself; but there were moments when
the thought of bygone times — ^when she had dwelt at the farm, of those
few happy weeks when she and her husband had all the world to them*
selves in the pleasant old pavilion — ^would come upon her with a fond
retrospection that partook of regret.

It was not so much the altered existence, as the change which this
new existence had wrought in Gerard himself, which occasioned her in-
voluntary sigh when she recalled past days.

226 HELENA ;

When they had first come to settle in Narbonne, her young husband
would each day return to her after his long morning study with Doctor
Dubrusc, like a released schoolboy. He would come laughing, and shout-
ing, and bounding into the room, declaring that he must indulge himself
with some noise and active motion after so still a sitting. He would
snatch the needle-work or book out of her hand, whisk her round the
room, give her half a dozen kisses, bid her put her bonnet on, and come
out with him that instant for a long walk in the fields, that he might
give his voice and his legs relaxation. He declared that his jaws and
his limbs became cramped with the inaction to which the} had been
subjected for so many hours ; that his eyes ached with looking upon the
stern immobility of Doctor Dubrusc's countenance, or the eternal monot-
ony of the read or written page instead of the bright sunny smiles of
his Gabrielle ; that his ears would become deaf with the silence of that
dull old mansarde, and with longing for the cheerful sound of his wife's
voice. And then he would make her chatter to him, as they walked
along ; telling him of all that had happened in his absence — of the neigh-
bours she had seen — of the work she had planned — of the drawing she
had done — of the arrangements she had made in their little household.

But gradually this boyish gaiety subsided ; Gerard's youthful spirit
was not proof against the diurnal dullness of those long forenoons. In-
sensibly, the silence became infectious, the sedentary position habitual ;
and he would return home spent and weary, and disinclined to talk, as
he was for exertion. The afternoon walks ceased to be proposed;
Gerard would hang over his wife's chair, and watch her needle as it took
stitch after stitch, without asking her to throw it aside ; and the conver-
sation languished, when only she was the talker. The change was so
gradual, and Gentille-et-sage was so slow to perceive any thing amiss in
the manner of one she loved so well, and likewise so little accustomed
to urge what she found to be distasteful, that she yielded to his prefer-
ence for remaining at home, and his growing disinclination to talk ;
never discovering that he was altering, until the change had actually
taken place. There was no change in hii^ affection towards her. He
loved her as passionately, as devotedly as ever ; his love seemed only

THE physician's ORPHAN. 227

intensified by his greater sobriety of manner ; but he had altered from
the light-hearted youth to the staid man — ^from the ardent student to the
grave doctor. He was as kind as ever, but he was less gay ; he wai
thoughtful rather than hopeful; he was reflective, instead of demon-
strative.

His love for her remaining the same, Gabrielle would neither have
noted nor regretted the transformation of the boy-lover into the attached
husband ; but when she became aware of the shadow which had thus by
degrees fallen upon his once bright young spirit, she could not but sigh
when she remembered their joyful existence at the faim.

She would now have ventured to urge him to take more air and
exercise, and would have endeavoured to lead him into lively conversa-
tion, instead of indulging him in the fits of silence into wj^ich he con-
stantly fell ; but she herself was no longer so capable of exertion as she
had been. She could no longer walk so far, or chatter away in so con-
tinuous a strain as formerly. She almost felt tempted to repine at the
cause of her incapability for much walking or talking, now that both
might possibly conduce to rouse her husband into greater cheerfulness,
but she could not bring herself to resign the hope of which her present
state was the signal. She contented herself, therefore, with looking for-
ward to the time when the baby she expected should be bom ; in the
trust that its existence would be a source of new joy and interest to
G-erard, inspiring him afresh, and restoring him to his native gaiety and
animation.

The happy moment arrives. A little girl is born. Gabrielle places
the infant in her husband's arms, and as Gerard blesses his child, and
fondly traces its mother's face in those shapeless features that bear no
impress to any other than a parent's eye, she murmurs : — ^' Like me
Gerard ! No ; the portrait of yourself! I thought of our favorite Clo
tilde's words : — true, as they are tender and beautiful !

* VoilA 868 tniicts — son ayr I voilA tout ce que j*ayme I
Feu de sou ceil, et roses de son teyut:
jyoii vient m*en esbahyr ? aultre qu'en tout luy-tnesirie,
Peut-il jamais esdore de moo eeyn T *

828 HELENA ;

That morning, the yonng father is scarcely able to settle tranquilly
to his study. Though his transports, which would fain have found vent
in communicating to his godfather their cause, met with a chock when
he had first announced the tidings.

" Give me joy, sir !" said Qerard, as he entered the mansarde. " I
am a father I Glabrielle has brought me a little girl this morning ! I
have a baby born !"

" A baby? Pshaw ! What's the use of a baby?" muttered Doctor
Dubrusc ; " Don't talk stuff! Write !"

Gerard tried to obey, and to work steadily ; but just as a little hand,
with its fairy nails, joints, fingers, and thumb, all in mimic miniature
was shaping itself in fancy upon the page before him, the apparition of
a bony, shrivelled, dry hand, grimy with snuff, and shiny with un-
washed use, spread itself on the leaf, seeming gigantic in its proportions,
after the baby image it replaced.

" Know as much as I do now I Needn't come any more I Can't
teach you much more ! Practice better than reading or writing now !
Practise ! Find patients !"

" I have some patients already, sir ;" said Gerard. " After leaving
you of a day, I go my rounds ; and they are fast increasing."

" All the better ! Practise ! Learn more than by coming here I
Needn't come !"

"But I hope you will let me come and see you often, still, god-
father. I can never thank you sufficiently for all you have done
for me. Though you have taught me so much, and so untiringly,
yet I must still come and intrude upon your time ; I must still come
ib see you."

" Want to see me. — Come !" And Doctor Dubrusc resumed the pe-
rusal of his book, precisely as he had done about a year before, on Ge-
rard's first arrival in Narbonne.

His pupil and godson now pursued his medical career in good ear-
nest. His practice increased, his patients grew more and more numer-
ous; he gave unremitting attention to their cases, by devoting his
thoughts to the consideration of symptoms, and devising means of cure,

THE physician's ORPHAN. 2!^

when he was absent, as well as by the care, patience, and kindness,
which he bestowed while attending the bedside of the suflferers.

Gerard was an enthusiast in his profession. He believed the art of
healing to be a science divine. He regarded the privilege of cure as
something partaking of godlike power. He looked upon his patients as
sacred deposits in his hands, alike blessed in a vouchsafed recovery, and
conferring a blessing on him who was the instrument of Providence for
their rescue. The exalted light in which he viewed the functions of* his
calling, led him to discharge its duties conscientiously, reverently ; he
labored with scarcely less piety and devotion of spirit, than he might
have done^ had his ministry been a religious one, — for holy did he feel a
physician's vocation to be. Its skill puts in requisition the highest fa-
culties of the human intellect, as its administration calls forth the ten-
derest sympathies of the human heart. The able and the kind physician
is a human benefactor. He garners up his treasures of learning and
experience, that he may dispense them again to his suffering brethren.
He comes with his timely succour, cheering both body and spirit with
the single boon of health. He raises the sick man from his couch of
pain, and sends him forth elate and vigorous for fresh enjoyment of ex-
istence. He restores the ailing, and rejoices their despondent friends.
He gives new life to the sick, and revives the hopes of those who depend
on the sick man's recovery for subsistence. He banishes illness, and
holds death at bay.

Conceiving such to be a physician's privileges and duties, Gerard felt
how especially they called him to their exercise among the poor and
helpless. He accordingly devoted himself almost exclusively to the care
of this forlorn er class of sufferers, and sought rather those who needed
his aid without the means of paying for it, than those who could sum-
mon and remunerate its services..

His skill; his tenderness, his charitable care, made him renowned
among the destitute population of Narbonne ; although he had as yet
obtained little fame or employment among its wealthier inhabitants .
But his time was so fully occupied with attendance upon his pa-
tients— as numerous as they were (pecuniarily) unprofitable, that he

280 HELENA ;

had now less and less opportunity of leisure at home with Gabrielle
than ever.

His personal vigilance of the cases he had in hand was unwearied ;
and when he was not engaged in visiting a patient's sick room, hia
thoughts were anxiously engaged with the circumstances of the disorder ;
with its origin, with its progress, with the means it admitted of relief,
with the hope of its ultimate cure.

It was therefore fortunate for Gentille-et-sage that the birth of her
little girl afforded herself a great resource from the solitude to which
the incessant preoccupation of her husband would otherwise have con-
demned her. In its smiles, in its cooings, in its first recognition, in its
growing love, in ministering to its comforts, and in developing its facul-
ties, the heart of the mother found full content. To Gerard, also, at
first, his infant daughter had been an object of great interest ; he had
called her by his mother's name — Helena ; and had taken great delight
in watching her baby beauty, and dawning intelligence. The child had
thus fulfilled the hope which Gabrielle had conceived from the prospect
of her advent ; but not long did the influence last ; soon the father's,
thoughts were again absorbed in his vocation ; and though Gerard's love
was firmly and entirely fixed upon his wife and child, they possessed but
little of his society or attention.

There was one demand upon his time and thought, however, which
no preoccupation ever led him to disregard. However busy, however
anxious, Gerard never failed to find a moment for calling upon Doctor
Dubrusc. Three or four days never elapsed without his visiting the old
mansarde. Though his godfather's brevity of speech promised but
little gratification to either party from conversation, yet Gerard never
neglected to go and see the old man, to tell him the news, to sit with
him a few minutes ; to let him see, in short, that he was not unmindful
of what he owed to his instruction, and that he felt both gratefully and
affectionately towards him, spite of the eccentricity which might choose
to repulse the expression of such feelings.

On the occasion of one of these visits to the old mansarde, when the
little Helena had attained to an age. which placed her beyond that stat«

THE PITXIICIAN's ORPHAN. 231

of babyhood which was avowedly objectionable to Doctor Dubrusc, whea
she could trot about, and speak plain, and understand every thing that
was said, when she had become, in fact, a very pretty, lively, amusing
child, Gerard thought he would take his little girl with him to see his
old friend.

It happened to be the doctor's birthday, or saint's-day ; and in ob-
servance of a national custom, Gerard stopped in the market-place, and
bought a bouquet of flowers, which he might take with him to present to
his godfather, when he wished him joy.

He gave the nosegay to Helena, while he carried her up the six
flights of steep stairs which led to the doctor's attic dwelling. He set
her on her feet, when they reached the door of the mansarde, and
opening it, bade her take in the flowers, and souhaiter le bon jour a
Monsieur.

The child obeyed ; running across the room, looking up in the old
man's face, and presenting the birthday offering, with pretty smiling
looks, and tolerably articulate words ; for Helena was not at all shy with
strangers.

" What do you want here, child ? Who are you ?"

'' She is my little daughter ;" said Gerard. " I thought you'd like
to see her, sir, now she's no longer a baby. Helena, sir ; my child."

" Child ! What's the use of a child ? Go away, child ;" said Doc-
tor Dubrusc.

Helena did not move, but stood there, staring at the old man, as ho
did at her.

" Do you hear me, child ? Go away !" repeated the doctor ; but in a
less gruff tone than before.

Still Helena did not move. She gave a short little nod ; then an-
other. " Ess ; I hear you ;" said she.

" What are you nodding at, child ?" said the doctor.

" At you ;" she replied.

^^ What d'ye stand nodding at me for ? Qto "* said the old man.

" Ess, I'm going ;" said Helena, with a succession of rapid little
nods, as she turned towards the door ; then suddenly coming back, she

232 HELENA ;

went close to the old doctor, leaned against his knee, held up her mouth
towards him, and said : — ^^ Kiss Nenna 'fore she goes "

" Kiss ye, child ! Get along with you !" But though the old man
said this with much surprise, there was no harshness in his voice, nor
did he draw hack from her as he uttered the words.

The little girl, judging, as most children do, rather from manner
than words, and finding no very formidable repulse in the former, pro-
ceeded to clamber on to his knee, repeating : — ^^ Kiss Ncnna 'fore she
goes ! Well, then, kiss Nenna 'fore she goes !"

The old doctor gave a little stealthy bashful glance at Gerard ; and
seeing him apparently absorbed in the contemplation of a map that hung
against one of the dusty walls, he ventured to let his face stoop towards
that of the child ; who, hugging him round the neck, and giving him a
hearty kiss on his wrinkled cheek, slid down from his knee, saying : —
" Not angry with Nenna ; she go now." She went to her father, put her
hand in his, and led him towards the door, looking back at the old man
with a repetition of her series of short nods, as she said : — ^^ Good bye,
good bye !" And then she and her father, who repeated her salutation,
quitted the mansarde, leaving Doctor Dubrusc staring silently after
them.

Next morning, nothing would suit Helena, but her father must give
her some sous. Gerard was going out to his usual round of patients ;
and he could not stay to listen to what his little girl asked. '' I don't
know what she is talking about, Gabrielle ;" said he to his wife. " Make
out what she says, and give her what she wants. I think she is asking
for money ; though what such a child as that can want money for, is
more than I can comprehend,'* added he, as he left the house.

" Is it money you are asking for, Nenna mine ?" said her mother.

^^ Ess, chere maman ; give Nenna four sous, please ;" said the child.

" What do you want them for, my Helena? Are they for the poor
sick fruitiere yonder ?"

Little Helena shook her head ; but continued to hold out her hand
tor the money.

<< Not for her?" said Gabrielle.

THE physician's oefhan. 233

<' No ; papa takes care of her ; she don't want any more than h«
gives her;" said Helena, with a little knowing look: "he never lets
poor people want money — I've heard you, mamma, say so. He's a gooti
kind papa. But Nenna wants you to give her four sous for her own
self, eh ere maman."

^^ Little coaxer i" said her mother, giving Helena the money ; which
the child had no sooner obtained, than she put up her mouth with her
usual little speech : — ^'' Kiss Nenna 'fore she goes !" and her valedictory
nod, and " Good-bye I" and then trotted demurely out of the house-door,
which, as is usual in southern places, stood wide open all day.

Gabrielle, — accustomed to see her little daughter step across the
door-sill whenever it pleased her to go and play with the neighbours,
who loved the child's innocent prattle and its pretty face, and who
encouraged her to come and linger about with them, — said no word to
prevent Helena's departure, imagining that she was only bent upon some
ordinary expedition, a door or two off.

The little girl, however, went in a very grave and orderly manner
straight down the street; then, at an equally determined pace, she
turned the corner ; and so on, until she came to the market-place ;
where she made her way to the flower-stall, at which she had observed
her father make his purchase on the previous day.

She made her selection with a very discreet air, resting her chin
upon the ledge of the board, and peering carefully over all the heaps it
displayed ; and when she had fixed upon the brightest and gayest bunch,
there, she pointed it out to the presiding marchande de fleurs, requested
her to reach it down to her, and delivering the prix-fixe, — the requisite
four sous, she trotted off again with a sobriety of pride in her bargain
that would have done honor to a grown lady returning from market.

Not very long after this transaction, as Doctor Dubruso was sitting as
usual in his solitary mansarde, poring over his book, he heard a stamp,—
croak, — stamp ; stamp, — creak, — stamp ; coming up his crazy stairs, as
if some foot approached, that was only satisfied when its fellow foot was
planted safely on each stair, as it was gained, at a time. He listened ;
then he heard a pattering to and fro on the landing-place outside hifl

234 HELENA ;

room-door, as if a pair of little feet were trotting about in some uuoer
iainty. A pause ; then oame a dubious pat, as of a small open hand ;
then the spread fingers were closed, and a more assured thump, as of a
little clenched fist, made itself heard.

" Come in !" said Doctor Dubrusc.

Nobody came in, and nobody answered ; but a dull, though some-
what heavier thump than before, was to be distinguished on one of the
lower panels, as if some short individual had applied the most ponder-
ous portion it could find about its person in a still more vigorous ap-
peal againt the door.

" Come in, I tell you !" repeated Doctor Dubrusc.

" I can't !" said a childish voice ; '^ I can't reach the lock ! Come
and open it for me !"

In astonishment more than in hesitation, the old doctor remained
seated where he was ; while he heard the dull thumps renewed ; lump-
ing and bumping between every word, as if the short individual were
determined to push its way in, and take no denial.

" Come — and open — the door ! Come (thump), and open (lump),
the door (bump) !'*

Then followed a series of sullen, silent, resolute thump-lump-bumps,
that threatened to effect a breach in the worm-eaten door that guarded
the entrance to Doctor Dubrusc's den, spite of the diminutive size of the
battering-ram that was now applied so unrelentingly against the crazy
portal.

" I do believe it's that persevering toad of a child I" exclaimed the
old doctor; beguiled by wonder into a longer speech than he had
uttered for years.

But though Doctor Dubrusc said this amidst a torrent of pishes and
pshaws, it was remarkable that his face glowed with a look that it had
not worn for many a day ; and his furrowed cheeks, lean and sallow
with hours of solitary study and brooding disappointment, were lit up
with an expression that made them look almost smooth and comely.

He arose from his chair, with this look beaming in his eyes, while
on his lips lingered : — ^* Hark how she keeps on ! She'll have the door

THE physician's ORPHAN. 235

down ! She'll burst it in I And then the brat'll fall through, and
hurt herself V^

It was curious that this idea did not appear to afford the old doc-
tor so much pleasure, as, to judge by his mode of speaking of her, it
might have done ; on the contrary, he hastened his steps towards the
door, though he continued to murmur, '^ I never met with so persever-
ing an animal as this child is, in the whole course of mj life !"

Considering that Doctor Dubrusc had met with few children in the
course of his life, and even among those few, had been slow to form any
acquaintance with their dispositions and habits, it was not wonderful
that he had never happened to encounter one so persevering as his god-
son's little daughter.

But in truth, Helena was singularly given to persist in any point
that she had once resolved upon ; and without being either obstinate or
wilful, she was remarkable for perseverance, and unswerving pursuit of
that upon which she had once set her heart.

And so, day after day, did this little creature come trotting out to
bring the old man (to whom she seemed to have taken a strange fancy)
a nosegay from the market ; day after day, she would come tramping
up the old creaking stairs ; day after day, she bumped at the door until
Doctor Dubrusc came grumbling to open it for her, when she would
toddle in, give him the flowers, hold up her mouth, saying : — ^** Kiss
Nenna 'fore she goes," and then toddle out again, nodding and bidding
good bye.

Whether it was that this brevity of speech and visit on her part, ap-
pealed to the doctor's own taste for limited intercourse, it is impossible
to say ; but certain it is that these interviews took place, to the
mutual satisfaction of the old man and the child, without intermission
from the day her father had first introduced Helena there, until the
one when the meetings came to an unavoidable close, — as sad, as it was
abrupt.

One morning, when the little girl, having been able to obtain no
answer to her repeated calling and thumping, had succeeded in bunch-
ing the door open, she went towards her old friend the doctor, whom

USUb I1E1.1SMA ;

she found seated in his usual place by the table ; but instead of lean
ing forward over his book, he was resting agalYist the back of his chair,
his head drooping upon one shoulder. She spoke to him, offering him
her flowers; but he neither answered, nor looked towards her, noi
stirred at all

She thought he was asleep ; but finding she could not wake him by
calling to him, or plucking him by the skirts, she went and got some big
books, which she piled up by his side, until she had made a heap high
enough to let her get up and reach his face. When she touched it, she
found it cold as the marble brink of the fountain in the market-place,
and then she knew that he was dead I

Helena's screams soon brought the people who occupied the re-
mainder of the house into the mansarde of their fellow-lodger ; and they
were speedily engaged in endeavours to restore the old man, who, they
hoped, had only fainted. One of them hurried for medical assistance,
•and soon returned bringing Helena's father, Gerard. He immediately
pronounced that life had been for some time extinct ; and, appointing
some one to watch the body, until the proper authorities could be in-
formed of the sudden death of Doctor Dubruso, in order that steps
might be taken for the funeral, Gerard took his little girl home in his
arms.

On looking over the papers of his deceased friend, Gerard found,
within a leaf of the book that lay open before Doctor Dubruso at the
time of his death, one which proved to be a will, the body of which was
regularly and formally drawn up, signed, and attested.

It appeared, by its date, to have been executed soon after the doc-
tor's last visit to Perpignan. It spoke in some bitterness of Monsieur
Gerard's cooled friendship ; of its truly surmised cause ; of the proba-
bility that his godson would follow in the steps of his father, and never
seek nor require his aid ; and then the will went on to bequeath the
whole of his property, which was of large value, to the foundation of a
school of medicine in his native town, Narbonne.

In a codicil, also regularly executed, and dated immediately subse*
quent to Gerard's arrival in Narbonne, he rescinded his original bequest^

THE FHTSICLAN's ORPHAN. 237

in his godson's favor, making him his sole heir and legatee. After that^
lower down, and seeming to have been added when his pupil had gained
a numerous circle of patients, — which the old man supposed would prove
only the commencement of so large a practice that there was every pros-
pect of his godson's accumulating a large fortune of his own, — ^was
written, in form of a codicil, but unsigned, and unwitnessed, this sen-
tence : — ^' Qerard won't want it. Let it be for the school of medicine."
Still lower, on the parchment, appeared, in unsteady characters, the
words : — " If Helena, Gerard's daughter, should " '

The pen seemed to have been flung aside, or dropped, here, as if the
writer had felt unequal to the task of penning more at the time ; and
Gerard could not help thinking that it was in the act of inscribing these
very words, that his old friend had been seized with the attack of illness
which had ended in death.

Gerard, with his characteristic probity, resolved that the wealth of
Dr. Dubrusc should be devoted to the purpose originally stated in the
body of the will ; taking no advantage, which perhaps might have been
legally claimed, — or at any rate, litigated, on the strength of the first
codicil, which was formal in all respects. He could not have felt hon-
estly happy in availing himself of the kind intention of his godfather,
\rhile a doubt existed as to whether that intention had been altered:
Whether the alteration might not have been made under a false repre-
sentation of Gerard's circumstances, seemed to him a question nowise-
affecting the case ; that his godfather's wishes in the disposal of his*
money should be strictly and exclusively fulfilled, was his sole con*
sideration.

He accordingly set zealously to work to promote the foundation of a
school of medicine from the funds which his friend's property produced ,•
and in discovering how large a sum this really was, he could not refrain
from a bitter smile at the thought of the mistaken worldlincss which had
actuated the Perpignan banker in his secession from amity with the
eccentric old doctor.

But while Gerard's sense of honesty thus bade him yield all claim
ftpon his godfather's legacy, and taught him to ensure its appropriation

238 HELENA ;

elsewhere, be was at that very time so far from not needing it himself, thai
there was no period of his life when its possession would have been more
useful to him. So little prospect was there of his making a large for-
tune, that his income was next to nothing from his custom of giving his
chief attention to the maladies of the poor. By constant devotion of
his time to them, instead of seeking richer patients, he had contrived to
be but a poor man himself, though increasing rapidly in experience and
ability.

For Gabrielle and himself this was enough ; neither he nor Qentille-
et-sage caring for more than mere competence. But just at this
period an object presented itself more and more strongly to their wishes,
which rendered a sum of money indispensable.

Gerard and his wife had once in each year indulged themselves with
a visit to the farm — to the village where Monsieur le Cur6 lived — to all
th«^ir favorite haunts thereabouts. They had often agreed how plea-
sant a thing it would be, if ever they should be able to return and make
this spot — the scene of their youthful happiness — the home of their
old age.

Of late, this scheme had won still more upon their fancy ; and they
longed to see their vision of retirement realized, while they were still of
an age to enjoy it fully.

To enable him to carry out this plan at once, Dr. Dubrusc*s legacy
offered itself in opportune temptation ; but Gerard's principles of honor
were not of that kind to be affected by a chance, however opportune,
however tempting. He had no sophistry that might sanction ill-doing,
either from a conviction of expediency, or from a pretence of pure mo-
tive. With him right was simply right ; wrong, simply wrong. He
therefore renounced all thought of Dr. Dubrusc's money, as if there had
never been any question of its by possibility accruing to him ; and only
began to consider whether he might not manage to earn some of his
own, without infringing on the claims which his poor patients had on his
time and skill.

He was earnest in this desire, on Gabrielle's account, as he saw how
much pleasure the plan afforded her. and he omitted no exertion which

THE PHYSICIAK's ORPHAN. 239

migLt tend to the object in view ; but, just then, the wealthier inhabit
ants of Narbonne happened to enjoy provokingly good health ; besides,
though he had obtained an extensive renown among the pauper popula-
tion of the town, and though his name was high in those quarters where
squalor, filth, poor diet, and want of fresh air, made disease rife, and had
demanded and received his best skill, yet his fame had not spread much
beyond such precincts, and hitherto, the principal people in Narbonne
knew little of the clever physician who dwelt among them. However,
Gerard strenuously pursued his aim, and worked harder than evei 'n his
profession, with the hope of earning enough to maintain his wife, his
child, and himself, at no very distant day, in the old pavilion of the
farm, as theii: pleasant home ever after.

There was a spacious public garden a little way out of the town of
Narbonne, where Gentille-et-sage, with little Helena by her side, often
spent a large portion of the day. Here, with a view to her child's
health, and her own (which had for some time banefully felt a slow but
sure effect from the banishment from native and pure country air, as
well as the constant confinement within the walls of a town lodging),
would Gabrielle and her little girl sit ; the mother working, or hearing
Helena say her lessons. Sometimes the child would clamber about the
bai^k and sides of the seat — which was a sort of long wooden chair with
arms, that might have accommodated half-a-doien persons ; sometimes,
a game of ball, or battledore, or bilboquet, would engage the attention,
and exercise the limbs of the little Helena ; while the mother watched
her active happy child, her fingers employed in knitting some winter
comfort for its father.

One afternoon, when Gabrielle and Helena had stationed themselves
in their favorite nook — one . particular corner of the long wooden seat,
which was shadily situated under a tree, — a Bonne and her charge, a fine
little boy about a year or two older than Helena, approached the spot,
and sat down near them.

Qabrielle*s basket, knitting-ball, and one or two other articles be-
longing to her, lay on the seat beside her. She would have drawn them
towards her, to make room for the strangers, but as there was plenty of
Bpace beyond, she left all still.

240 HELENA ;

Presently tbo little boy collected a quantity of pebbles from the
gravel-path, and came towards the bench with his treasure in his arms.
He deposited the heap on the seat, and then commenced clearing a space
farther on, by brushing away Gabrielle's basket, ball, &c., with his arm,
taking no heed that the articles were suddenly tumbled on to the ground
by this unceremonious proceeding on his part.

For some time, little Helena contented herself with silently remedy-
ing the mischief, by picking up her mother's scattered property, and re-
nlacing it on the seat ; but after repeating this process once or twice,
and finding that it by no means mended matters, as the boy invariably
brushed them down again, she said : — " Take care, little boy ; mamma's
basket will be broken."

«

" I want room to build a castle ;" replied the boy, giving another
clearing nudge. Qabrielle removed the basket to the other side of her,
and put the knitting-ball into her apron-pocket, without speaking, that
she might observe the children.

" What pretty hair youVe got !" said Helena next ; after having
looked with admiration at the boy's curls, which hung down, glossy
dark, and thick, upon his shoulders. <' How bright, and how long, and
how soft it is !" added the little girl, touching it, and smoothing it down
with her fingers.

" Don't ! you'll tangle it ;" said the boy, drawing away his head.

^< Fie, master Bertram !" exclaimed his Bonne ; '^ let the little girl
admire your beautiful hair !"

'' I shan't ! Let it alone !" replied master Bertram.

After a pause, during which Helena had shrunk to a little distance,
whence she tried to peer at what he was doing, she said : — ^^ Are you
building a castle ?"

" Yes ; don't you see I am ?"

" I can't well see so far oiF; may I come nearer?" asked she.

" Take care you don't jog, then ;" said the boy.

Helena comes a little closer ; gets a better view of his operations ;
becomes greatly interested in the tottering fortalice, which with much
careful piling together of pebble-stones is gradually rearing its walls

THE FHT8ICIAN*8 ORPHAN. 241

boneath the boy's hands. She leans forward, watching breathlessly;
when, being a little too near for master Bertram's convenience, his
sturdy little elbow is suddenly stuck in her chest, to remind her to keep
farther back.

She obeys the warning for an instant ; but forgetting caution in her
eagerness to watch the progress of the castle, she leans too forward, and
again receives a hint in her chest that she is in master Bertram's way.
The blow this time is directed with such unmistakeable earnestness of
reproof, that the little girl reels back, falls, and bruises her arm. The
Bonne exclaims ; Helena's mother picks her up and asks her if she's
hurt.

" No, he didn't mean it ; did you, little boy ? Here, kiss it, and
make it well I" said she. holding out her arm, where the skin, soiled and
grazed by the gravel, bore sufficient evidence of her hurt.

" It's bloody and dirty ; indeed I shan't kiss it," said the boy, turn-
ing away to finish building his castle.

Again the Bonne said : — '^ Fie, master Bertram !" And again she
was satisfied with saying it, and with the slight effect it produced upon
master Bertram himself For presently, Bertram was as busily engaged
as ever in the erection of the pebble stronghold, and Helena was again
leaning over him, forgetful of the late consequences of her vicinity to
the sturdy little elbow. It made one or two lunges at her, from which
she had the presence of mind to withdraw in time ; but as she always
had the hardihood to return to her post of observation, the boy at length
said : — " Don't worry, little girl. Don't you see the wall of my castle is
nearly built up to. the top? Don't jog so. Go and pick up some more
stones for me. I shan't have half enough for the high tower I mean to
build here."

And accordingly, for some time after that, Helena patiently trotted
to and fro collecting stones in the skirt of her frock, and bringing them
in heaps to Bertram, who went on with his edifice now, in peace, and
much faster ; and he signified his approval of this state of things by
graciously accepting her contributions, bidding her deposit them on the
bench ready to his hand, and then to go for more.

242 HELENA ;

The two children went on thus for some time, until the castle was
completed to master Bertram's satisfaction ; when Helena's proposal to
cut out some paper dolls with her mother's scissors, and to place them
inside the pebble fortress as its Baron and Baroness, and suite of re-
tainers, was negatived by master Bertram's " No, no ; that's stupid work ;
dolls are only fit for girls ! What's this?"

" That^ my bilboquet ; you can have it, if you like, to play with.
And here's a ball ; or here's a battledore and shuttlecock ; if you like
them better." Master Bertram seized the offered toys; and became
amicable with his new acquaintance ; letting her be his playfellow, by
permitting the little girl to run and fetch his ball when he tossed it up
high, and it fell at an inconvenient distance ; or to pick up the shuttle-
cock, when it dropped upon the ground in consequence of his failing to
hit it, and by other such little sociabilities, and condescending equalities
which he established between them in the games they had together.

Meantime, while familiarity was growing between the two children,
the Bonne seated herself rather nearer, on the long bench, to the corner
where Gabrielle sat, and entered into conversation with her.

The Bonne began with the theme always most agreeable to a mother's
ear ; one, in which she rarely discerns hyperbole.

'^ Ah, madame," said she, *' what an amiable child is your little
daughter ! What grace ! What sprightliness ! And what beauty. An
absolute nymph ! And what goodness ! What sweetness ! What
patience and forgiveness of pain and injury ! An absolute angel ! Ab,
madame ! How fortunate you are, to possess so much loveliness, and
so much virtue united in the person of that seraph, your child ! How
rare is such a union ! There is master Bertram, for instance. He is
beautiful as the day, but his temper is deplorable. He has the adorable
grace and loveliness of Cupid himself, but he has not that gentleness,
that softness which inspires love. Alas, no ! he is rough and selfish !"

" He has been spoiled, perhaps — indulged too much ?" said Gen-
tille-et-sage ; " and yet," added she with a little sigh, '^ indulgence ought
not to spoil a grateful disposition."

^' Tou are right, dear madame ;" said the Bonne. " A good heart u

THE physician's ORPHAN. 243

not Rpoiled by having its own way. But where every kindness is re-
ceived as a right — ^where attention and affectionate service are claimed
only as feudal dues — when faithful domestics are treated like slaves —
ah, madame — then, indeed, too much power entrusted to childish hands
is injudiciously fostering native haughtiness, caprice, and selfishness,
and encouraging tyranny."

The sentimental and sententious Bonne went on to explain to Ga>
brielle, that her charge, master Bertram, was sole heir of an ancient
family, and only child of the count and countess of Eousillon. That
he was inordinately indulged, and that, in consequence his natural
defects — those of pride, self-will, want of generosity, and disdain of
those beneath him in birth — ^had been enhanced rather than repressed.
She spoke of his mother, the countess, as a virtuous gentlewoman ; and
of his father, the count, as a noble gentleman, a brave soldier, and one
in high honor at court, possessing the confidence and friendship of the
king himself. She told Gabrielle that his lordship, the count of Eou-
sillon, was at present suffering from a disorder which had originated in
a severe wound in the chest that he had received on his first battle-field,
some years since ; and that he had quitted his chateau in Rousillon to
sojourn for a time at Narbonne, in the hope that he might receive benefit
from the change of air, which had been recommended to him. The
count had been accompanied hither by his countess, who was a devoted
wife and mother, and by his little son, from whom his parents could not
bear to be separated.

Many times, after that day, Gabrielle and Helena met the Bonno
and her charge in the public garden ; and, Gabrielle's pleasant manners
soon winning the good graces of the Bonne, as little Helena's good-
humour rendered her an agreeable play-fellow to master Bertram, it
came to pass that the countess, ere long, heard a good deal from her son
of the little girl he had found in the gardens, and from her Bonne of
the little girl's mother, who seemed to be quite a superior kind of per-
son— quite a lady, indeed, though only a poor physician's wife, as she
had by chance discovered her to be.

The countess of Rousillon, whom anxiety for her husband's reix^*

244 HELENA ;

very, made eager to seize any chance of cure, was struck by heariug
that the stranger's husband was a physician ; and she was just think-
ing of joining her little son in his visit to the public garden that day
to learn more concerning this unknown doctor, when her thought
was confirmed into a determination to seek him, by a singular chance.

It happened that the .countess, in her charitable kindness, having
afforded relief to a poor woman who begged of her in the street, learned
that the sick husband of the mendicant had been attended in his illness
by a certain good young doctor, who, in consideration of the destitute
state of his patient, would take no fee. *' Ce bon monsieur Gerard
would have given us money, instead of taking any from us," said the
woman ; " but I pretended we didn't want it — for I know he does —
almost as much as we — having a wife and child to support, and not earn*
ing a great deal to support them with. No, no, he's too generous and
good to the poor, to have made any thing of a purse ; so, rather than
take from him, I said we had enough to go on with — (may le bon Dieu
forgive me for lying !) — and I came out into the streets to beg. when
you, madame, kii^dly gave me this."

By a little questioning, the countess soon discovered that this good
young doctor, with a wife and child to support, was no other than the
husband of the interesting stranger whom her Bonne had mentioned to
her ; and farther, the poor woman went on to say so much, of her own
accord, respecting the skill, and care, and attention, which this good
young doctor had bestowed, and the wonderful relief his treatment had
yielded her suffering husband, that the countess resolved to lose no time
in applying to him in behalf of her own.

Gerard, upon being consulted on the count of Rousillon's case, with
his usual integrity, gave it as his opinion, that from the nature of the
wound itself, and partly from the injudicious treatment it had hitherto
received, he could not hope to perform a complete cure ; that his lord-
ship would in all probability be subject to relapses during the remainder
af his life, even should he survive the present crisis ; but, he modestly
added, if the count would consent to place himself in the hands of
an obscure practitioner, he thought he CDuld undertake to relieve suffer*
ing, and avert immediate danger.

THE phtsician's ohphan. 245

The result was the fulfilment of his promise ; and the count, restored
to more robust health than he had ever dared to hope might again be
his, was enabled, at the end of a few months' sojourn at Narbonne, to re-
turn with his wife and child to their estate at Bousillon.

The noble family, on taking leave, testified their gratitude to their
benefactor, by loading him with afifectionate proflfers of friendship, and
assurances of gratitude ; by an earnestly-expressed hope of seeing him
at no very remote period, as a guest at the chateau de Bousillon, and by
a handsome sum of money, proportionate to their estimation of the
benefit they had received at his hands.

The chateau de Bousillon being situated at no very great distance
from Gabrielle's native home, Gerard imparted to his new acquaint-
ances the hope he had of accumulating sufficient to come and reside
permanently in their vicinity ; and, in the anticipation of one day be-
coming neighbours and friends, they parted mutually pleased with each
other.

Time wore on, and still Gerard was working hard with his cherished
object in view. Like many men who propose to themselves the acqui-
sition of competence, of retirement with independence, they leave unde-
fined what is in reality to form this competence, this independence.
They assign no limit to the yearly income which is to suffice for all their
wiihes ; they vaguely speak of waiting until they shall have earne<^
enough to live upon, without previously calculating what annual amount
will supply means of subsistence, or computing the sum requisite to
produce such annual amount ; they talk of moderate desires, simple
tastes, inexpensive pleasures, without reckoning costs, or asking them-
selves what is, in fact, the style of living which will fulfil their ideal
of enjoyment in existence.

And thus went on Gerard year after year ; without perceiving that
life itself was passing in the acquirement and prospect of a living. His
was a probation — an awaiting of some expected future, some visionary
period — rather than an actuality, a positive state of being. In that an-
ticipated epoch he dwelt, not in the present lapse of time ; he noted not
that the cheek of his wife grew ever paler and more attenuated with

246 HELENA ;

abiding in a pent town, while he contemplated her ultimate removal to her
native country air and home ; and Gentille-et-sage was just the unselfish
being to forbear urging her own condition upon his notice, whilst he him-
self was well and contented. For in the vision of this ultimate retire-
ment with his beloved Gabrielle, in the present work of attaining this
proposed future good by the prosecution of his profession, in the daily
thought and occupation it afforded him, and in the sight of the daily
benefit it effected, he was both well and contented.

The sum he had gained by his attendance on the count Bousillon,
was the foundation of his fortune ; the care of so illustrious a patient
brought him patronage from others of equally high rank; while the
wealthy but untitled herd, followed in the track, where nobles had been
their precursors. The young doctor became the rage — the fashion ; he
became as noted as he had been neglected ; and at length the very title
was awarded to him, which he had once dreamed might be his ; for he
became known as the eminent physician — the famous Gerard de Nar-
bonne.

Alas, for poor short-sighted human nature ! It sacrifices its best
years in struggling for that which when obtained, time has rendered
valueless ! It neglects the enjoyment of daily life, toiling to achieve a
remote existence, which is poisoned in its approach 1

Gerard now possessed a surname which might grace the wife for
whose sake alone he prized its honors ; he had amassed a fortune
large enough to empower him to establish her in ease and even luxury
wherever they might choose to fix their abode ; but in the very moment
of his awakening to a consciousness that he had attained both these de-
sired objects, he became aware that she, for whom he had coveted their
possession, could no more hope to share them long with him.

Gerard had given instructions that the pavilion should be prepared
temporarily for their reception, as he meant to defer refitting, enlarge-
ments, and all other improvements, until they themselves should be on
the spot to decide upon the necessary alterations. He was in all the
delight of prospectively enjoying the happiness which such a plan
opened to them both ; when^ on proposing an early day for their de-

THE physician's ORPHAN. 247

parture to take possession of their old new home, he found that Oabrielle
was compelled reluctantly to acknowledge that she was too weak tc
undertake a journey just then. She spoke cheerfully of shortly being
better able to bear the fatigue ; but Gerard, once his attention drawn
to the subject of her health, perceived with alarm many symptoms^
which had never struck him till now. His observation had been so con-
centrated upon the cases of his patients ; his thoughts had been so much
occupied elsewhere, that he had failed to perceive the illness whicL
made its approach beneath his very eyes, and lurked insidiously beside-
his own hearth.

Gabrielle had always concealed her growing failure of strength under
a sprightly demeanour, and as much activity of carriage as she could as-
sume ; while her natural ease of manner, simplicity, and gaiety of heart,
had seconded her innocent deceit. Her husband, looking into that
smiling face, and within hearing of that cheerful sweet voice, did not
surmise the lassitude of limb, and debility of frame, that in secret op-
pressed her. We all know, how the countenance of those we daily see,
let them be loved as intensely as they may, — nay, the rather for that
intensity of love — fails to strike us as changing in appearance, as long
as affection is still its prevailing expression. The fading lustre of the
eye is unnoticed, while love lends its own light to the look which meets
ours ; the lines that draw and contract the mouth are unseen, when
smiles play around lips uttering nothing but kindness and cordiality.
We forget to look for traces of indisposition, where all bespeaks some-
thing far more welcome to our sight ; and our own natural shrinking
from aught sinister to them, refuses to acknowledge the approach of
danger, helping to mislead us into a fatal confidence. Comfort and as-
surance of heart dwell in the gaze of those we love ; and thus it comes,
that those who are nearest and dearest to each other, are not unfre-
quently the last to perceive what it most concerns them to know-
threatened ill health.

Totally unaware of the blow about to be dealt him, until the very
moment of its stunning fall, Gerard had hardly been aroused to per*
eeive the approach of the foe ; he had scarcely, with shuddering ao

S48 HELENA ;

knowledged the presence of peril, when he was smitten with the fuU
force of its consummation. Gabrielle's declining symptoms were ab-
ruptly aggravated by an attack of fever ; and she died on the very day
of their proposed return to their native home.

Her husband sank prostrate under this unexpected stroke of fate.
His usual strength of mind utterly forsook him. He yielded, without a
struggle to his grief, and lay overwhelmed and unresisting, struck to the
earth by a misery so sudden and so complete. He felt alone in the
world. She, who had alone, of all the world, understood and entirely
responded to his nature ; she, whose image had blended so completely
with his every thought, that (with the paradoxical mood of intimate
affection) he had come to pay her as little outward attention as he did
to his own semblance ; she, who had become so integrally a part of
himself that he gave her no more external regard than he did himself,
was now torn away for ever. What wonder that the poor remainder,
the writhing wounded other self, should lie there in anguish as acute
as if actually severed, disrupted, and rent asunder — henceforth a bleed-
ing mangled fragment of being ?

He had cast himself upon the ground close beside the bed, upon
which she had breathed her last, and from that moment had never
raised his head. He had not swooned ; he did not shed a tear, or utter
a sob ; but there he seemed flung, a broken desolate man, bereft of that
which had given him heart and vitality. He had no consciouEness of
time, of aught existing. The poor neighbours whom the young couple
had attached by their kindliness, and gentle courtesy, and unostenta-
tious benevolence, offered some respectful attempts at consolation and
sympathy ; but his apathy of misery awed them, and they pursued in
whispers and with noiseless steps their offices about the dead, while,
after their first unsuccessful proffer, they only from time to time ven-
tured stealthy glances of compassion towards the prostrate sufferer.

Little Helena crept towards him, and sought to relieve his grief and
her own, by sharing its pain together ; but he took as little notice of her
as he had done of the neighbours, and the thought of his child seemed tc
be lost in that of the wife who had been snatched from him. He acta
ally was, as he felt, thenceforward alone in the world.

THE physician's ORPHAN. 249

The neighbours feared, that when he should see them, in accordance
with their national custom, ere twenty-four hours had elapsed, withdraw
the body for interment — he would be moved to some violent demonstra-
tion of despair ; but no, in beholding her death, he had felt the full
sting oi her loss, and the mere corporeal form, the earthly remains of her
he loved, seemed no longer to him to be Gabrielle — that creature whom
he had worshipped — ^that being who had been a part of his own.

When night came, he still remained there, a heap of silent sorrow —
for he had somehow formed a fierce determination never to occupy a bed
more. They had placed food by him — for they had not dared to urge
it upon one who had mutely refused, with the sullen, incapable look of
a young bird in bondage. They had left him at length alone, to deal as
he best might with his strange misery ; his little girl only, crouched in
one corner of the room, watching him in hopeless ignorance of how to
offer aid, yet unable to abandon him, and instinctively lingering near
him, as if her very presence could help to guard him from farther evil.
She watched until her strained eyes ^became stiff and weary; and
then the childish lids gave way, drooped, and closed in sleep — profound
as it was involuntary. She had thought that sorrow for her dead mo-
ther, and anxiety for her unhappy father, would have surely kept her
awake ; but to youthful sorrow and anxiety it is mercifully granted that
they shall be powerless against drowsiness, and they have thus the boon
of promoting their own remedy.

Through the watches of the night thus remained Gerard and his
young daughter ; the one wrapped in a deep slumber, the other in his
profounder grief A lamp lent its feeble rays to the chamber, which
seemed a sepulchre — so lately had it held the dead, so completely did it
bury the hopes of its principal occupant. The drooping figures of the
father and child looked like sculptured mourners, monumental images
of grief, so mute, so motionless were they.

Day dawned, and found them still thus. But as the sun arose in his
majesty, and poured his cheering beams into that desolate chamber, Ge-
rard's brain seemed suddenly to acquire activity and perception in esti-
mating the circumstances of his loss. He uttered a sharp groan as the

250 HELENA!

painful process of resuscitation took place in his bitLerto spell-bound
thought. The events of his life presented themselves in strange dis**
tinotness before his mind. He beheld as in a vision the whole train of
incidents which had marked his intercourse with his wife from their
first meeting to their recent separation. He involuntarily retraced
scenes, words, looks, long passed away, but which had unconsciously en-
graven themselves upon his memory, now to be recalled unbidden, yet
with singular vividness. As they passed in review before him, many a
pang of remorse seized him, as some fancied negligence, or some occa-
sion of omitted kindness on his own part, smote him. With the sensi-
tive self-accusation which always accompanies reflection upon our con-
duct in connection with a beloved object lost to us for ever, a thousand
of such instances arose in all the torture of unavailing regret to goad
his heart. Above all, he reproached himself bitterly for the blindness
with which he had suffered the tokens of her declining health to escape
his observation, while engrossed with the sole pursuit of what should se-
cure her repose, enjoyment, a^ prolonged life. He felt that in ab-
sorbed prosecution of a visionary scheme, he had lost sight of actual
happiness, and that he had sacrificed substance to shadow.

From the depth of his remorse arose two clear resolves, as expia-
tory offerings to his troubled conscience. He determined that he
would rouse himself from the selfish lethargy of grief, and by devoting
himself with more fervour of zeal than ever to the cause of the poor,
render tardy homage to the angel nature which might be supposed to
rejoice in such a consecration of his energies; and the other resolve
was, that the wealth, which had been amassed with an aim so frus-
trated in its accomplishment, should be scrupulously dedicated to the
use of the same suffering class — the neglected of men, the pitied of
God and his angels.

With the courage which a new-formed resolution imparts to the soul
of man, Gerard arose from the ground. With the Bame intense thought
of hersdf^ which had not permitted her husband to regard the remains
of Gabrielle as the being he had loved, he glanced not towards the spot
where the body had so lately lain, but looked straight up into th«

THE physician's ORPHAN. 251

blue heavens, where it seemed to him she now was. But with the
engrossing impression that he was now alone, and completely alone
in existence, neither did he once glance towards his child, or perceive
that she was there, or for an instant recollect that there was such a
being in the world. Gerard was constitutionally a nyin of strong feel-
ing, and by habit a man of concentrated feeling. He was at present
wholly absorbed in his solitude, his bereavement, and in the train of
thought, emotion, and resolve it had engendered ; with the abstraction
of one thus immersed, therefore, he went forth from the chamber, bent
solely upon his new-conceived purpose, and totally unmindful of another
duty which still more imperatively claimed fulfilment at his hands.

The little girl awoke as her father quitted the room. She^ shivered
with the chill of the morning air, with the cramped unrestful position
in which she had sat for some hours, and with a sense of utter abandon-
ment and desolation. She staggered to her feet, and called feebly after
him, but no voice answered. She listened to his retreating steps, but
no sound reached her. She thought of attempting to follow him, but
she knew not* where he was gone. She wrung her hands, and looking
helplessly round, she saw the bed upon which her mother had so lately
lain cold and dead, and then she flung herself down headlong upon it.
f^obbing, " 0, Mother ! Mother ! Mother !"

Very desolate and forlorn was the condition of this poor young girl.
Accustomed to the warmest evidences of affection from earliest infancy,
her childhood had, till now, been an uninterrupted course of happy ex-
istence. She had never known what it was to lack sympathy, or encour-
agement, or endearment from her mother, who was as tender as she was
cheerful.

Gabrielle was one of those beautifully-constituted beings, whose
sprightliness detract no jot from their sweetness. She was as gentle as
she was gay ; she was as loving as she was light-hearted. She had been
a fond, an indulgent friend to her little Helena, as she had been her
play-mate and companion. The young mother and daughter had
frolicked together as if they had been of the same age : and the child
though an only one, had thus never known want of fellowship. Now

252 HELENA ;

Bhe was as much alone as her unhappy father ; for he saw not how a
consideration of her feelings, an inquiry into her sorrow, might serve to
allcTiate his own, and promote the consolation of both her and himself

Gerard devoted himself with all the energy of his nature to his self
appointed task, in which alone he believed he could find solace. The
greater part of every day he was absent from home, indefatigable in ad-
ministering the resources of his art ; the few hours he was in his own
house being passed in study, shut up by himself in a small room which
contained his books. His mode of life was ascetic. He slept upon the
floor, and made his sparing meal upon scarcely more than a crust. The
only indulgence he permitted himself was coffee, which was brought to
him daily, towards the dusk of the evening, by Helena. There was a
homely peasant woman who had been their servant ever since Gerard
and his wife had settled there ; and she still remained, preparing such
meals as he would take, and contriving that his child should carry in the
only thing for which he showed any preference. He continued to drink
coffee, as it enabled him to work late into the night ; and Nicole had
taken it into her worthy head, that by sending his little daughter into
his room with the coffee, he might be won to notice her.

But day after day she stood there, with her patient eyes, and in
timid silence, unobserved by her father, who would remain absorbed in
his work, until some stray waft of the steaming berry scented beverage,
or some pause in his writing, or some slight noise of the spoon against
the cup ind saucer she held, would induce him to stretch forth his
hand, and take the coffee from her, but without so much as lifting his
eyes from the book or paper before him. Helena had always been
taught, by her mother^s example no less than by her precept, never to
disturb her father when he was studying. She had, therefore, frequently
before waited upon him thus in silence, standing by him until he should
become aware of her presence, and take from her that which she had
brought ; but never before had she felt so painfully his abstraction. He
would formerly say no more than he did now, it is true* ; but he would
give her a little silent nod, or a pat on the shoulder, or a touch under
the chin, even if he did not smile, or look towards her. Now, however,

THE physician's ORPHAN. ^53

neither nod, nor touch, nor smile, nor look ever reached her ; no signal
that she was even known to be there was given ; no token that her pres-
ence was perceived, save the final stretching forth of the hand to take
the cup from hers.

She would stand there watching that grave profile, almost stern in
its absorbed downward gaze, and ache with longing to see it change its
expression, and turn towards her. She would stand holding the coffee,
fearing lest it should get cold, before he thought of taking it ; she
would watch the curling steam, and note each diminishing upward curl
of vapour, as the liquid gradually lost its heat. She would stand there
with all sorts of strange fears and fancies crossing her mind. She
would wonder whether her father ever meant to look at her or speak to
her again. She would at one time follow his hand with her eyes along
the paper, and thrill with impatience to see it stretched out towards the
coffee that she might be released ; at another, she would think so closely
and so anxiously about the time when the hand should approach her to
take the cup, that her heart beat with expectation, and she would start
violently when the instant arrived. Sometimes she thought of setting
down the coffee on the table, and leaving it there ; but besides the fear
that it might remain there untouched, and that he should thus miss the
only thing he cared to take, there was another undefined dread mingling
with as vague a hope, which whispered her not to put the cup down, but
to tarry till his hand received it. At others, she thought she would
summon courage to speak to him ; and when she was away l^he thought
she would surely do so the next time she went to him ; but the next
time came, and she stood there as patiently, as silently, as ever ; until at
length it grew worse by delay, and it became impossible even to think
of addressing him. At last so many nervous terrors beset her as she
stood there motionless beside him, that the hour for taking in her father^s
coffee came to be looked forward to with almost as much dread, as it
had formerly been wished for.

But though Helena would tremble and become very pale, when she
went to Nicole to fetch the cup, still she never ceased punctually an I
constantly to go to the kitchen when she knew the coffee was ready,

254 HELENA ;

take it steadily in hex hand, and proceed straight to her father's room
TLe good-hearted servant-wench, when she observed the little girPs agi
tation, asked her if she should take it in for her. But she said : — ^^ NO;
no ; give it me, Nicole ; I'll take it myself ;" and though her tremor
every day increased rather than diminished, nothing could persuade her
to relinquish the task she had undertaken.

^I'll tell you what, ma'amselle," said Nicole one day abruptly to Helena,
as she was preparing to take in the coffee, ^' if you don't speak to mon-
sieur, I shall. I can't see you going on in that way, shaking, and look
ing as white as a sheet. We shall have you getting ill, or dropping the
coffee-cup, and smashing it all to bits, or some mischief or another. So
mind, if you don't speak to him, I shall ; and tell him a piece of my
mind too !"

" No, no, Nicole ; you mustn't disturb him — ^you mustn't speak to
him — promise me, Nicole ;" said Helena eagerly.

^' Well then you just do— or I shall ; mind that !" said Nicole ; and
as Helena said something promissory, going in with the coffee, the kind-
meaning servant-wench added, as she followed her with her eyes : — " I
can't see what's the good of learning, for my part, if it an't to teach
people the use of their senses. Here's a man poking over his books,
and can't see what's just under his nose ; a pretty doctor ! ferreting out
how to cure everybody's disorders, and never finds that his wife was
dying, and his child's dwindling away, for want of a kind word, and a
look, and a iielping hand, in time. I should like to know how my pot-
au-feu would get on, if I was to be readin' and studyin' about it, in-
stead of putting the beef in, and paring and cutting the carrots and tur-
aips. Precious soup we should get, if we were to depend on learning,
for it ; pardi !"

Meanwhile, Helena had gone in to her father's little study, and was
etanding there as usual at his elbow with the cup of coffee. She tried
not to listen to the beating of her heart, and to muster enough Voioe to
speak ; but still she stood there mute and motionless. Her eyes were
fixed upon her father's high temple, which was barer than usual, from
the hair having been somewhat pushed back when he leaned his head

TH£ PBTSICIAN'S ORPHAN. 255

apon his band just before. A line or two of silver threaded among
the dark clusters of hair that were raised from the brow ; and as the
eyes of his young daughter traced the course of those heralds of
thought, and care, and premature age, she unconsciously uttered a
deep sigh.

It was at this very moment, that her father reached out his hand fot
his coffee. The sound caught his ear ; he started, and raised his eyes
to her face.

It was colourless ; and two dark rings surrounded those meek patient
eyes that were fixed upon his with a look which childhood should never
wear ; the lips were wan, and quivered a little, as they stood apart in
timid yet eager expectation.

^^ Helena ! my child !" exclaimed Gerard, with a look as if he had
awakened from a dream. " Where have you been ?"

" Here, papa !" said she.

Her father passed his hand across his forehead ; and seemed as if for
a moment he fancied she had been standing there ever since he had last
beheld her, with that enduring perseverance, that dumb unreproachful
constancy, which spoke its involuntary appeal to his heart in those be-
seeching eyes, those pale cheeks, and tremulous lips.

He drew her towards him, and pressed her head against his bosom.
" Mj child ! My dear Helena !" were all the words he could find to
express what he felt towards his forgotten daughter ; his self-reproach,
his reawakened interest, his comprehension of her patience, his admira-
tion, his love. But what need wad there of words, where so much of
tenderness was expressed in his looks, in his voice, in his gesture ?
Helena, as she lay within his arras, wept gentle tears of comfort, and
joy, and satisfied affection.

Gerard now understood something of what had been his little girPs
sufferings, whilst he had been absorbed in his own ; he saw that her
solitary grief had preyed on her health ; and in alarm lest another vic-
tim should be the consequence of his neglect, he hastened to devise
means for removing his child from a position which he perceived was
utterly unfit, and which might be productive of fatal consequences. He

256 HELENA ;

wrote to his friend and patroness the countess of Bousillon, enliBtiiig
her sympathy in hehalf of his motherless girl, and entreating her coun-
sel and aid. He hogged that she would extend her former kind inten-
tion towards himself to Helena, hy receiving her for a time, at the cha-
teau de Bousillcn, that change of scene might efface the sad impression
which had heen made on her young mind, and rescue her from a situa-
tion so perilous to her health and happiness as association with a hroken-
hearted man, lost in his own eternal regrets. " I have now hut one
solitary aim on earth ;'' thus the letter concluded. ^^ It is that I may
render myself worthy of joining her who is now in Heaven, hj self-
denial, humility, and faithful lahour ; and hy a life dedicated to the
relief of my poor fellow- sufferers on earth. A man thus devoted to a
sacred task, is not a meet guide for youth. The two duties cannot
coexist The requirements of the one infringe on the exigencies of the
other. Let your charitable heart, therefore, dear lady, prompt you in
behalf of my innocent child ; lost, if you do not step to her aid. My
only plea in asking this boon at your hands, is her own desert, which
will, I know, requite your goodness as it should be requited. The grate-
ful devotion and affection of a young true heart will be yours. To these
are added the prayers and blessings of

Your ladyship's unhappy servant and friend,

Gautier Gerard."

The countess's reply was a warm compliance, brought to Narbonne
by Rinaldo, her steward, who was charged to escort Helena back to the
cheateau de Rousillon. On the arrival of her young guest, the coun-
tess could not avoid being struck with the change that had taken place.
The lively, chubby, rosy child of but a few years old, had grown into
the pale quiet girl — fast-growing, hollow-eyed, and lank. Traces of pre-
mature care and suffering sat upon the young face, and the effect of her
white cheeks, and thin arms, was touchingly heightened by the contrast
with the mourning frock she wore.

The lady of Rousillon received the poor motherless girl with a gen-
tleness and pity that went straight to Helena's heart, so sore with its
late unhappiness ; and the youn^ girl was still hovering near her kind

1
^./i.

THE physician's ORPHAN. 257

new friend, when Bertram entered the room. He had been out in the
park, with his dogs, one or two of which followed him into the saloon
where his mother sat.

He was now a fine tall lad ; and swung into the room glowing with
exercise, in high spirits and good humour, flinging his hat off, and dis-
ooyering a face sparkling with animation, features regular and command-
ing, and hair bright, thick, and curling.

As his mother's eye rested upon her handsome son, — a picture of
healthful beauty, her heart swelled with happy pride ; she thought of
the contrast he presented with the poor little pale thin creature at her
side, and she drew her kindly towards her.

** Come here, Bertram ;" said his mother. " See who is here. Do
you not remember your acquaintance of the Narbonne gardens, little
Helena ?"

" Is that little Helena !" said Bertram. " I never should have known
her !"

" Did you remember me ? Did you think about whether you should
have known me V^ said Helena.

^' I was absurd enough to think of you just the same as you were ;"
answered he. ^* I somehow fancied, when I heard you were coming to
Rousillon, that I should sec just the same rosy dumpling of a child that
you were then, forgetting that we had both grown bigger since, and that
of course you would be altered, as I am."

^^ I don't think you're altered ; I should have known you any where ;"
said she. " I remember your hair exactly ; and the high eyebrows — and
the color of your eyes, just as I recollect them, when you used to be
watching the shuttlecock fly into the air."

Helena, in looking at Bertram, and tracing her recollection of his
features, was hardly aware of what made her wince, and shrink, as the
two large dogs which had accompanied him into the room, were now
sniffing and snuffing and trying to make acquaintance with the strange
little girl, by poking their cold noses against her bare arms, and push-
ing their rough snouts up to her chin, and other slight amenities, some-
what startling to a child of her age, unaccustomed to the proximity of
large hounds almost as big as herself

258 HELENA ;

^' Bertram, my dear," said his mother, '^ hadn't jou better send these
dogs out of the room, or call them oS, for I think they're annoying our
petite amie here."

" Here, Nero ; come here, sir ; lie down, Juba ;" said Bertram,
slightly whistling to his fayorites. " Are you afraid of dogs ? An't you
fond of 'em ?" added he to Helena.

" Are you ?" said she.

*' Fond of them ? 0 yes ! I like to have them always with me.
That's why I like to be out in the park, because there nobody minds
'em ; the saloon isn't thought their fit place, is it, mother ? I know
you only allow them to be here, because you love to please me, more
than you care about the dogs, like a good kind mother as you are.
Don't you V

His mother smiled ; but after a little lounging about, Bertram swung
out of the room again, whistling his dogs after him ; and Helena sat
reproaching herself with having driven him away, by her folly in being
unable to help starting when the dogs touched her. She resolved to
break herself of such a stupid trick, and to try and make friends with the
noble animals on the first opportunity.

The count Rousillon was absent from the chateau at this period.
He was at Paris, in atteiidance on the king, who esteemed him highly,
and was fond of his society. A few days after Helena's arrival, a mes-
senger came to Rousillon from the count, bearing letters and greetings
to his countess, with a present to his son of a handsome fishing-tackle,
which had often been the object of Bertram's wishes.

There was a fine piece of water which adjoined the chateau, and
which in one part of its stream formed the moat that surrounded the
turreted irregular walls. Bertram had frequently expatiated to his
father on the capabilities afforded for angling in this spot and the in-
dulgent parent now remembering, in absence, his son'p desire, sent him
the means of its gratification.

When Helena learned what the packet from Paris probably con-
tained^ she begged of the countess that she might have the privilege of
carrying it at once to Bertram, who was out in the park.

.••-

THE physician's ORPHAN. 259

'^ My page shall take it to him ;" said the countess.

** Do let me take it, madam ;" urged the little girl. ^' I know it will
give your son so much pleasure, and would give me so much, if I might
be the bearer."

The countess nodded and smiled ; and away went Helena.

'^ See what I have here for you !" she cried from a distance, as she
perceived Bertram among the trees. '^ My lord, your father, has sent
Baptiste from Paris with this box for you ! And we think it must con-
tain the fishing rod and flies you wished for so much; and my lady
allowed me to bring it to you, that you might open it at once, and see
what it is."

'' Set it down on the grass, and undo the fastenings ;" said Bertram.
^' I hope it really is the rod ! Oh yes ! And what a capital one ! And
what a good line !"

'^ And look at these curious flies !" exclaimed Helena.

" I'll put one on the line directly," said Bertram. " I must have a
throw. I know there must be millions of trout here. Hush, don't make
a noise ; don't talk. Hush, Helena.

A moment after, he himself loudly exclaimed at his dogs, who were
snuffing to and fro, taking a busy interest in all that was going on, and
9* length uttered the sharp bark of excitement and sympathy with their
master's new pursuit, which had provoked his ire at the interruption to
his sport.

" Confound those dogs !" he exclaimed ; " I wish they were hanged
or drowned out of the way. It's impossible to fish, while they're yelp-
ing about one."

" Mightn't they be put out of the way, without hanging or drown
ing ?" asked Helena, with a smile ; " you may want them to-morrow, you
know, when you're tired of angling ; and then you would rather find
them safe in their kennel, wouldn't you ?"

" How you talk, Helena ;" said he. " If they're to be taken to theii
kennel now, I must go with 'em, and leave my fishing ; for they won't
mind any body but me ; and they won't leave me for any body else'f
bidding."

260 HELENA ;

« Won't the J?" said she ; " let's try."

The young girl uttered a little melodious whistle which she hmd
practised in imitation of the one she heard Bertram use with such
good effect in calling his dogs. Then she went a short distance, slap-
ping her frock as she had seen him do upon his knee, and mimicking as
well as she could the imperative '* Here, Juba, here ! Hie along, Nero !"
witL wl ich Bertram was accustomed to enforce their obedience. Find-
ing that they still lingered round their master, she drew from her
pocket a piece of rye-cake which she had found effectual during her late
assiduous training of the dogs and herself to a mutual gooj understand-
ing. In the present instance, the lure proved successful ; for wagging
their tails, and following Helena with wistful eyes, they drew off the
field, leaving Bertram in peaceful possession of the banks of the stream.

Here she found him, on her return, engrossed in the pursuit of his
new pleasure. And during the whole afternoon, and for many follow-
ing days, he still eagerly enjoyed the sport ; Helena lingering by his
side, helping him to fix his flics, to watch the bites, to land the fish, to
carry home the basket, and in a thousand ways rendering herself an ac-
ceptable companion.

One morning, they had just succeeded in hooking and landing a fine
trout, that had enhanced the pleasure of his capture by making it a
matter of difficult achievement ; now starting away as if he would snap
the line, now darting through some tangled sedges where he might twist
it, now floating teasingly near, now giving them a run of several yards
along the bank, now waving slyly down by the weedy bottom, now
glancing recklessly close to the crystal surface, and in short keeping his
foes in all that breathless suspense, and dubiousness of ultimate triumph,
which constitutes the charm of the pursuit, — so bewitching to an angler,
80 incomprehensible to other people.

Helena had secured the flapping victim in the basket, and was anti-
eipating the pleasure of Bertram's displaying this prize so his mother ;
when, having adjusted a fresh bait, and thrown his line again across
the stream, he suddenly uttered an exclamation, which caused his com-
panion t \ook round. She found that the end of the rod. with its ap

THE physician's ORPHAN. 261

pended line, had snapped off, and was now floating away towards a plot of
rushes and river-weeds that grew in the water near to the o'pposite bank
at a considerable distance from the spot where they stood.

" 0 it will be lost !" exclaimed Helena. " Your rod will be spoiled,
and useless, without the top. Let nn try and get it back. How can we
manage ? What had we best do ?''

" It's gone — it's hopeless !" said Bertram. " It will be quite floated
away, by the time we can get round to the opposite shore ; or lost among
those flags and weeds. Provoking !"

" We can but try ;" said Helena. " I'll run round through the wood
over the bridge, while you remain here to watch it, and to point it out
to me, when I get to the opposite side."

" No, no ; it's almost out of sight now — it's of no use. I must give
it up."

** We can but give it up, when we have done all we cat ;" said He-
lena, and she was just running off, when Bertram said : —

" I tell you, it's of no use, Helena ; I can't stay here watching all
day for a thing that's already out of sight. I shouldn't so much mind
the loss, for I've had almost enough of angling ; but I shall be sorry to
have to own the rod's spoilt, when my father comes home. Provoking !"
muttered he again, as he looked in vain towards the weeds near which
the broken rod and line were fast disappearing.

^^ The count's kind gift ! His beautiful present !" said Helena, with
her eyes fixed in the same direotion.

^' Well, it can't be helped, at any rate /' oaid Bertram, as he walked
away, adding : — " I'll go and take Nero and Juba out for a good long
walk. I haven't had a ramble with them this many a day ; ever since
I've been looking after the trout."

Helena remained for a few minutes longer, still looking intently
across the stream, which spread broad and far just there, forming a
small lake among the grounds of the chateau ; then she suddenly turned,
and walked fast along the bank, beneath the trees, till she came to some
broken ground, which adjoined the more level park, and where the
stream dashed and foamed among the underwood, from some rocks thaf

262 HELENA \

roee abruptly there about. This tumbling torrent waa crosfted bj a
rustic bridge -at its foot. Over the bridge Helena passed swiftly ; and;
tripping along the briery pathway on the opposite side of the stream,
made her way with a rapid step.

On reaching the bank, near to which the plot of rushes grew, she
peered carefully about, in the hope of descrying the object of her search,
but no vestige of rod or line was there to be seen. " If I could but get
among those weeds — close to them, I could look better ;" thought she.
" If I could but swim !" A moment after, she exclaimed, half aloud :—
" The boat ! how came I not to think of it ?"

She retraced her way as speedily as she had come ; and then has-
tened on to a spot in the park, where she knew a small pleasure-boat
was moored. She soon succeeded in undoing the fastenings, and in pad-
dling herself across the stream, back to the plot of rushes. Here she
spent some time in searching minutely among the flags, and at length
she became unwillingly convinced that the missing rod was not there.

She was reluctantly turning the head of the boat to recross the
stream, when its current drew her attention to the fact that the rod had
probably floated on farther, quite away from this spot. " The stream
flows from the torrent in the dell, across this broad piece of water, to-
wards the moat ;" thought she. " I'll follow the course of the stream ;
perhaps I may find Bertram's rod still."

She pushed the boat on in that direction, peeping into all the sedgy
nooks, and grassy crevices, along the shore, in vain ; until she entered
the moat which washed the walls of the chateau, entirely surrounding
them. These walls were built irregularly ; forming all sorts of odd
angles, and crannies, and close recesses. In one of these, floated by the
current, and washed far inwards, lying in a tangled heap, Helena spied
the lost line, with the fragment of rod. She steadied the boat as well
as she could across the narrow inlet, which was formed by two meeting
angles of the edifice ; for the space thus left between the walls that rose
sheer from the water, was too small to admit the head of the vessel.
Helena stretched herself as far over the side, as possible ; but she could
not nearly reach the floating object, even with the tips of her fingers.

THE FHTSICIAN's ORPHAN. 26t

Uow tantalizing it was, to see it lie there, within a few feet of her, bat
as much out of her power, as when out of sight !

She seized the oar, with which she had paddled herself thither ; but
she not only nearly lost her balance, trying to wield so heavy an objeot,
but she had the mortification to peroeive that instead of gaining any
hold of the line with the unmanageable end of the oar, she only suc-
ceeded in pushing it farther than ever beyond her reach, until it washed
away right up to the extreme end of the recess, where it lay bobbing
and floating in coy retirement,— obvious, yet unattainable/

Helena felt so frustrated and baffled in the very view of success, that
she could have shed tears of vexation ; but recollecting just in time for
the honor of her childish wisdom, that such a proceeding would advance
her no jot, — at the very same fortunate moment popped into her head
another idea no less sagacious. This was, that she would try and make
one of the dogs swim across the moat and fetch the line out of the recess.
Then remembering that she could hardly make the dog comprehend
what he was to seek, she determined to row back and bring the dog with
her in the boat to the spot, where she might point out to him the precise
object she wanted him to fetch.

Her experiment was crowned with complete success. She returned,
accompanied by Fanchon, one of the smaller dogs, Bertram having taken
r^ith him his two favorites ; and, with its help, she succeeded at length
in securing the top of the fishing-rod and line. Her first impube was
to take them to their owner, in the hope of pleasing him by the news of
their recovery ; but remembering that his zest for angling had suffered
an abatement, she resolved to keep them quietly for the present.

Another letter arrives from the count, stating that he is still detained
from rejoining his family, by the wishes of the king, whose gracious de-
sire for his longer stay is not to be withstood. The count speaks of a
valued friend of his, the lord Lafeu, who has been desired by his royal
master to prepare for a diplomatic mission to some neighbouring state.
This friend being anxious, during his absence, to obtain honorable
protection for his daughter Maudlin, who lost her mother when an
infant, the count has invited the young lady to pass a few weeks at the
chateau de Rousillon, on a visit to his countess.

264 HELENA ;

Mademoiselle Lafea arriyes ; and is greeted with all distinotion and
affectionate welcome. She proyes to be a liyely girl, with an air of do*
oision and court-bred ease about her manners that bespeak her to be an
inhabitant of the capital.

French words best describe the distinguishing characteristics of this
young French girl. She was insouciante, in her gaiety of spirits;
nonchalante. in her indifference to the opinions of others ; she was assci
spirituelle ; tant soit peu espi^gle ; and had much aplomb in her tastes,
her judgment, her conyictions, or rather in her mode of answering them
all three, whenever, however, and with whomsoever she might choose to
assert them.

She formed a striking contrast with the provincial-bred Helena, who
was quiet, retiring, and undemonstrative in speech. The one was accus*
iomed to utter every thought aloud the instant it was formed ; nay,
sometimes, before she had thought at all upon a subject, she would ex-
press very decided sentiments regarding it : while the other would speak
no word upon matters which had not only engaged her serious consider-
ation, but upon which she was prepared to act with energy, firmness, and
pertinacious constancy.

Maudlin Lafeu would eagerly discuss veriest trifles as if her whole
Soul were wrapt up in them, and the next hour, prove by her actions,
that she cared no iota for any one of the things for which she had been so
earnestly arguing ; Helena was chary of alluding to her own views, even
upon topics on which her mind was made up with a consistency and
steadiness hardly to be expected from a girl of her age. Maudlin was
sparkling, animated, and full of vivacity; Helena was tranquil, and
somewhat reserved, though not shy, or awkwardly bashful. She had
timidity, though no want of resolution. A diffidence of self, combined
with remarkable self-confidence. A mistrust of her own merit, with a
consciousness of moral power. An unassured belief of intrinsic worth,
with a strong faith in her own principle of right. A humility that
taught her to assign blame to herself rather than to others, combined
with a high internal sense of her true claim to regard.

In externals there was the same dissimilarity between the two young

THE FHTSICUNS ORFHAN. 2di

girls. Maudlin was brilliant m complexion, had eyes bright and rest-
less, with lips wreathed in smiles ; .while Helena was pale, her ejes were
soft and thoughtful, with a look of steadfastness in resolve, and her
mouth was sedate, though the lips were full, and so coral and red, that
they afforded the point of colour, in which her face would otherwise
have been deficient.

To complete the contrast. Maudlin was dressed in the height of the
then Parisian fashion, a rich father's liberality enabling her to indulge
in every extravagance of adornment ; while' Helena, a poor country phy-
sician's daughter, wore a simple black frock of the plainest make, and of
the least costly material.

On the morning after Mademoiselle Lafeu's arrival at Rousillon, the
countess, having done the honours of the house, by showing her young
guest over the chateau, deputed her son to escort her through the park
and the rest of the domain, which was extensive, and very beautiful.

With more eagerness of manner than he usually displayed, whep the
gratification of any other than himself was in question, Bertram complied.
Fe led the way, talking animatedly with the young lady, who, interrupt-
ing him in the midst of something he was saying, turned to Helena,
with : — " Will not you come with us ?"

^' Go, ma petite ;" said the countess, in answer to the mute enquiry of
Helena's eyes.

They had crossed the drawbridge over the moat, and wore just enter-
ing the park. Bertram dwelling with much complacency upon the noble
growth of the trees, upon the valuable timber they would yield, upon the
beautiful site of the chateau, its picturesque structure, its best points of
view, and upon the territorial grandeur of the estate generally, when he
turned slightly to Helena, and said : — '^ I should like the dogs to be
with us."

Helena replying, " Ay, they would enjoy this ramble," tripped back
to fetch them.

^^ Where is she gone to ?" asked Mademoiselle Lafeu.

'• Gone to fetch Nero and Juba, my dogs, they are such fine fellowi ;
f should like you to see them ," answered he.

266 HELENA ;

'^ Should you ? But I am sorry Mademoiselle Helena should haT«
Ihe trouble of returning for them," said Maudlin.

" 0, she don't mind it ; and the dogs are very fond of her ;" replied
Bertram.

Mademoiselle Lafeu seemed about to say something more, but was
prevented by Helena's running up^ with the dogs leaping and bounding
each side of her.

They walked on again ; Bertram by the side of Maudlin Lafeu.
talking and laughing in high spirits, and using his best efforts to enter-
tain her. Helena followed a little in the rear, with the dogs sti?^ frolick-
ing, and gamboling, and jumping about her ; while the young Udy fre-
quently turned to address some remark to her, as if wishing her to take
part in the conversation that was going forward.

Presently, as they emerged from the shade of the trees, Helena per-
ceived that the glare of the sun seemed oppressive to Mademoiselle
Lafeu, who had only the small flat hat or cap worn by French ladies of
the period, and which afforded little protection to the eyes or the com-
plexion.

" You feel the rays too hot and too bright for you. Mademoiselle ;"
Baid Helena. ^^ Will you use my broad straw hat, which makes a good
screen for the eyes ?"

" Do ;" said Bertram.
But Maudlin declared she would not deprive Helena of it, who
would then be as badly off as herself.

'^ But you must not risk such tanning as this ;" said Bertram.
" Helena will go and fetch you a veil, or a fan, from the chateau."

" Yes, that will be the best ;" said Helena, as she darted off in quest
of them ; while Bertram added some gallant speeches about the bril-
liancy of the complexion that Mademoiselle Lafeu was so ruthlessly
exposing to injury, which she interrupted by saying : —

'* Is this your country good-breeding, Monsieur Bertram ? You pay
» few fiddle-faddle compliments to one young lady, while you permit
another to run about on your errands — or what ought to be yours, — ^for
why could not you gj yourself for the fan or veil which you think I ought
to have?"

THE physician's orfhan. 267

'^ 0, Helena don't mind it ;" repeated Bertram, laughing.

^^ Perhaps not ; but ycu ought. If you pretend to be a gentleman,
as I suppose you do, how comes it that you let a young lady wait upon
you ?"

" She's not a young lady ;" said Bertram hastily. " She's only a
poor girl, a protegee of my mother's. A country doctor's daughter that
my good mother took a fancy to, because the father happened to cure
minO; a long time ago, — for which service he was well paid, by the bye,—
and because the girl herself has lately lost her mother."

^' Tolerably good claims, too, to consideration ;" said Mademoiselle
Lafeu. " But whatever may be her birth, she deserves politeness from
a young gentleman, one would think, from the mere fact of her being a
pretty girl."

" Pretty !" said Bertram ; — ^^ what, with that pale face ? She was
pretty as a little child ; but she's quite altered — an absolute fright now,
with her white cheekn, and those dark rings round her eyes."

" Poor girl ! Perhaps she lost her good looks with grieving for her
dead mother. For good looks she has, depend upon it ; I can perceive
them through all that sorrowful one ; and some day or other, you'll see,
she'll prove my words, and come out a beauty."

" Not my sort of beauty ;" said Bertram, fixing his eyes with an ad-
miring look upon Maudlin's brilliant countenance, but with a boy's
bashfulness soon withdrawing his gaze, and stammering out : — ^'' I don't
see any beauty in linen cheeks for my part ; give me lovely red and
white, and a pair of bright happy eyes. Such as, I trust, some day or
other, to see in perfection among you Parisian Belles."

'''" The sieur Bertram tells me he is dying to see Paris ;" said Maudlin
to Helena, who now returned with the veil and fan. " Why does he
not persuade his father to bring him the next time he comes thither ?
You must help him to gain the permission, I believe, by pleading his
cause with his mother, who will plead it again with his father, and then
the aiFair will be settled."

" It's of no use any one pleading ;" said Bertram testily. " My
mother would long ago have given me my wish, but my father is obsti

263 HELENA ;

natelj bent upon my not yisiting the capital yet. He has violent
prejudices against Paris as an abiding place for joutu. Thinks ill of
the young men there as examples, and I know not what of scruples and
strictnesses, which surely are old-fashioned, over-rigid, and misplaced,
now-a-days."

^' This is so beautiful a place, I can hardly fancy sighing to leave it,
even for dear delightful Paris !" said Mademoiselle Lafeu. '^ And you
must have plenty of amusement here, too, to compensate for the court
gaieties, and the society of the capital. What a fine place for a gallop
on horse-back, a row on the lake, a falcon match, a trial with the bow
and arrows, or for hunting or fishing, or the thousand enjoyments which
you country gentlemen can command. There must be capital fishing
in that piece of water. Do you know, I'm a bit of an angler myself?
When I have been en campagne with my father, at our house at Marly,
he has taught me to bait a hook and throw a line, so that I should scarcely
be afraid to challenge such proficients as you and Mademoiselle Helena
doubtless are.''

*' You like angling ?" said Bertram. ^' How vexatious that I should
have no rod to offer you. Mine is broken — but — how I wish I had it
now !" ,

" I have it safely for you, I'll fetch it ;" said Helena eagerly. " I
got it back — it's mended ; I'll bring it to you directly."

'^ Do, do, Helena I But how on earth do you mean ? How did you
get it back ?" said he.

In a few words, she explained her recovery of the detached portion
of his rod and line, and then hurried away to fetch them.

Highly pleased, he began to question Mademoiselle Lafeu on her
knowledge of the sport, and to express his delight at the prospect of en-
joying it with her. She answered by dwelling upon Helena's having
taken such pains to gratify him, and by reproaching him for the slender
gratitude he had shown for her friendly zeal.

'^ If you go on praising it so, you'll make me detest it, instead of
teaching me to feel grateful for it ;" said he. ^' 1 hate things or people
that are belauded and cried up by every ona My mother tells me bg

THE physician's ORPHAN. 26^

muoh of Helena^s good behaviour that I'm rather sick of it ; and no\i
you are doing the same, and giving me a downright surfeit of her merits.
She's well enough, but she's no such paragon as you'd all make her out
to be.'*

'* You are a spoilt young man, and have your own way too much,
and are too little contradicted, I see ;" said Mademoiselle Lafeu. " If
I were to take you in hand, I would soon effect a reform."

'^ I think I am very well as I am, and want no reform ;" said Bertram
laughing ; '•* but still, you may take me in hand, if you like ; I don't know
that I should object to that ; especially when the hand that is to take me in
it, is so white and so soft," said he, with another boyish struggle between
admiration and embarrassment, as he took her hand and attempted to
kiss it.

** One of the first things I should expect you to alter, would be your
conduct to women," said Mademoiselle Lafeu, with the little air of supe-
riority which girls of her age allow themselves to lads of his ; " you
should be less forward to me, and more polite to Helena ; I would have
more deference, more fitting attention to each. See, where she comes^
with your fishing-tackle ; and yet you do not hasten to meet her, and re-
lieve her of the burthen. You a cavalier fit for a Paris circle, and so>
insensible to a woman's due !"

'' On the contrary," said Bertram, with his careless laugh ; " I'ok
quite sensibZ ^ of her peculiar excellence ; I'm thankful to her, as I am*
to my dogs, for what they do for me ; I'm bound to acknowledge her
ministry, as I am to nty hounds for their attachment, and their faithful
fetching and carrying. I'm a judge of dogs, you knowr— and she's a
good spaniel."

During the visit of Maudlin Lafeu, Bertram heard a good many
truths with respect to his haughty conduct, told him with no sparing of
his self-love by the young Parisian; but they served little else than to
pique him into extra admiration of herself; while they rather increased
than diminished his contempt of Helena, whose modest zeal showed like
servility against Maudlin's freedoms ; and where humility seemed only
conscious inferiority both of beauty and station, when seen in contrast

270 HELENA ;

with Mademoiselle Lafeu's bigh-bred ease, court manners, and Tarioas
graces of person and demeanour.

Bertram was a spoiled child by birth, by fortune, and by ciroum-
tftance ; and like many spoiled people, he felt little preference for those
who spoiled him. It seems an instinct, teaching the humoured person
to disregard those who work this evil, at the very time that he avails
himself of their indulgence. He uses and abuses the ministrants to his
will, while he feels an involuntary respect for those who inconveniently ^
yet boldly oppose its tyrannous dictates. He disdains ai d tramples on
those whose value he acknowledges by accepting their service, while he
courts and renders homage to those who treat him with indifference, and
whose sole claim to superiority may be their own assumption.

Time passes on. Bertram's boyish desire to visit Paris is yet unful-
filled ; for his father, firm in his conviction that a court is an unfit school
for youth, as the capital is an unfit asylum, until his son's principles shall
be more formed, and his studies farther advanced, has sent him to college
for a few years.

The king still frequently detains his favourite by his side ; and the
count, anxious to secure for his wife affectionate companionship in her
solitude at Rousillon, undertakes the entire charge of Helena. He writes
to her father, entreating him to commit her to the countess's and his
own care, engaging to provide her with masters and all requisites for a
solid education.

Gerard, strictly observant of that moral devotion, in which alone he
finds peace for his wounded spirit, and consecrating the whole of his
earnings — accumulated and present — to the needs of his poor patients,
reserves to himself the mere pittance requisite in his self imposed asceti-
cism, and is in fact, bare of all, save renown in skill, and the attachment
of grateful hearts. Thus destitute of resources, a voluntary pauper —
a devotee to penury in his own person, as in his tribute to the exigen-
cies of a sacred cause — Gerard willingly consents to a plan that secures
for his child an education and a home, which he himself has no means
of giving her.

Helena accordingly remains at the chateau de Rousillon, growing in

THE FHYSICIAN's ORPHAN. 271

knowledge, accomplishment, and virtue, while the improvement in her
health, spirits, and mental culture, brings' corresponding increase of
beauty ; and, on the verge of womanhood, she possesses as many attrac
tions of worth and excellence, as she presents those of person and ma
tured loveliness, which her early childhood promised.

She has courage, prudence, constancy in an eminent degree. She ii
stable in resolve ; faithful in duty ; invincible in attachment ; and she
is as full of womanly sweetness and gentleness, as if her character were
not compounded of such firm elements. True strength of mind is less
inconsistent with softness of heart than is generally or willingly allowed,
by those who injudiciously or interestedly persuade the sex that weak-
ness— ^moral, mental, and physical, is their most winning characteristic.
Feeble-mindedness, indecision, vacillation, cowardice, want of solid prin
ciple, lack of energy, infirmity of purpose, supineness of limb, debility
of muscle, enervation of frame, and the thousand foibles of soul and body
that are supposed amiable, will often lead to a selfish hardness, and an
inflexibility of egoism any thing but womanly ; while a loving nature
will not unfrequently inspire the most heroic acts of fortitude, dictate
the highest deeds of bravery — bravery in achievement — no less than in
endurance, and yet detract no particle from the sweet grace of feminine
reserve, nor abate one blush of sensitive modesty.

Such was Helena's nature ; full of the gentlest strength of love ; the
most unflinching capability of sacrifice ; the deepest tenderness, and the
bravest courage, the maidenliest diffidence, with the most lavish gene-
rosity ; the truest and most steadfast affieotion, with the most passionate
warmth.

But as yet, little occasion for the development of these qualities in
Helena presented itself Till such occasion should arrive, she seemed
a quiet, earnest, obliging girl, faithfully attached to the countess, who
ever treated her with well-nigh a mother's regard.

The count Rousillon, when able to be at the chateau, was kind and
paternal in his manner to Helena, and esteemed her highly for her own
merits, for the credit her accomplishments did to his having charged
himself with her breeding, and for the sake of the pleasure which her
society and aflection affi>rded to his countesa

272 HELENA.;

Bertram, on the recurrence of his vacations, spent them, by his
parents' wish, at Rousillon ; and on each of these occasions he failed not
to call upon Helena for her sympathy with his own indignation at being
compelled still to defer repairing to Paris, where he might spend his
holidays so much more to his liking.

True to her friendship, at the expense of her growing love, Helena
failed not to condole with him on these repeated disappointments, and
even to help him all she could to obtain the desired permission, al-
though it would destroy her own fondest prospect, — that of seeing
him at Rousillon. For the intervals when he was absent, were occu-
pied in thoughts of his last visit, of what he had said, of how he had
looked, of what he had chiefly liked ; or in dreams of his next-approach-
ing one, of what he would say, of how he would look, and of what he
might like, that she might prepare it for him against his coming.

At length a period arrives when she is able to greet him with some-
thing that she knows will please him. She is so eager to give him this
gratification, that she watches by the park-gates for his arrival during
the whole morning that he is expected at the chateau. The welcome sound
of his horse's feet reaches her ear; she springs forward, when the abrupt-
ness of her appearance startles the mettled animal, who rears, and
plunges, and it requires all Bertram's good horsemanship to keep him-
self firm in his seat.

The sight of his danger, the fear that he will be thrown, makes
Helena turn deadly pale ; but she does not utter a single shriek ; only,
after an instant's dismayed pause, she throws herself before the horse's
head, regardless of her own imminent peril, and endeavours to seize the
bridle.

" Stand out of the way ! Stand back ! You will be trampled down !"
shouts Bertram. '^ Leave him to me ; let him alone ; I'll manage him !
So then, so then, Charlemagne ! So then !"

When he had succeeded in reigning in the steed, and reducing him
to quietude, Bertram had leisure to observe who it was that had thus
crossed his path.

'^ Is that you, Helena? How could you be so absurd as to start out

.-li^T

THE physician's ORPHAN. 273

in that sudden way just before him ? Any horse would have shjed at
such a thing, especially a skittish high-blooded creature like this. So
then, so then, my beauty !" said he, patting the arching neck of his
favorite, that still quivered and throbbed in every one of its swelling
veins.

" I had some tidings for you, that I ^new would please you — and 1
could not help coming out here to be the first person to tell them to
you. It was very rash and foolish of me, to rush out so unawares upon
poor Charlemagne. Poor fellow ! Poor fellow !" And she patted the
horse on the same spot where his master's hand had so lately been.

" Well, but what are your tidings, Helena ? You don't tell them to
me, after all ;" said he, as he rode on slowly, she walking by his side.

" My lord the count arrived here from Paris, yesterday, and "

" My father at Rousillon !" exclaimed Bertram ; " why didn't you
say so before, Helena ?" And the young man was about to ride on
impetuously.

But Helena called to him that he had not yet heard what she had
to tell; and with a muttered " pshaw," he checked his horse, until she
should come up with him.

I heard the count tell my lady yesterday, that he had lately made
the acquaintance of two young men, whom he thought would make
admirable friends for his son. They are brothers of the name of Du-
main, have just obtained commissions in the army, and are in high favor
with his majesty. He said that their excellent qualities made him take
all measures to secure their intimacy for you, against you go with
him to Paris ; and from what more fell from him on the subject, I
cannot help thinking, my lord means to remove you from college, and in-
troduce you at court, the very next time he returns to attend the king."

" Do you really think so, Helena ?" said Bertram with sparkling
eyes and heightened colour. " This is indeed good news ! I long to
see my father, and learn if it be true."

He flung himself off his horse, as he approached the chateau, and
throwing the bridle to Helena, said : — *' Just lead Charlemagne roind
to the stable for me ; I cannot lose a moment in seeing my father."

274 HELENA ,'

Bertram hurried away ; while Helena kept her eyes fixed upon his
handsome agile figure as long as it was in sight, and wondered at the
blank that seemed to fall upon her spirit as he disappeared.

" Why am I so unhappy, when he is so elated ?" thought she ;
*• Ought I not to rejoice that he is pleased ? What delight shone in his
eyes as he bent their hawk glance upon me while I spoke the words.
And what eyes they are !" She threw her arm over the saddle where
he had lately sat, and looked up as if she could still see the eyes dancing
and sparkling with joy at her tidings. " He is happy to go ; how self-
ish of me then, not to feel glad that he is going. Glad that he is going I
Glad at his absence ! Ah, how can I ? Glad !" she repeated in a
soft sad murmur, as she hid her burning cheek against the neck of the
horse.

The noble animal turned its head towards the young girl, as if in
dumb sympathy with the low sobs she uttered, and the tears she could
not repress, which trickled down the glossy skin of its throat.

She spoke fond words, caressing and patting the intelligent creature ;
bidding it bear safely him whom they both worshipped as their ruler,
their guide, their dear master ; and whispering many a gentle entreaty '
that it might not be long ere the good steed should bring back his lord
to Rousillon, where loving hearts awaited him, that bore him stronger
and more constant affection than all the friends in Paris, young or old,
man or woman.

The countess's page at this instant came running towards Helena,
bidding her hasten in to his lady, who was in sad distress at a sudden
attack of illness which had seized the count Rousillon, only a few mi
nutes after his son's arrival.

Giving Charlemagne's rein to the page, while she hastily dried her
eyes, and endeavoured to assume as much calmness as might be, that
she should be the fitter to support and assist the countess, Helena
hurried to the saloon of the chateau, where she found the late tranquil-
lity in which she had left it, exchanged for a scene of the greatest oon-
Aipion and anxiety.

On a couch lay extended the count of Rousillon, his eyelids closed,

THE physician's ORPHAN. 275

his features convulsed and distorted, and his head supported on the
bosom of his wife, who, with her usual composure, the result of a placid
temperament and a well-disciplined mind, was administering restora-
tives ; although her trembling hand, and pallid cheek betrayed the in-
ward agony she was suffering. Beside the couch, and holding his father's
hand, knelt Bertram, while behind it stood Isbel, the countess's woman,
who was holding the essences and remedies with which she supplied her
mistress from time to time. Close by, stood Rinaldo, the steward, who
was receiving his mistress's low-voiced orders to despatch messengers
post-haste to Narbonne, to fetch Gerard, while others were sent else-
where in the meantime for medical assistance nearer at hand. In one
corner of the room was Lavatch, the clown, lustily crying and sobbing
in the sincerity of his heart, for his master, to whom he was fondly
attached.

Helena joined the anxious group, and was soon busily engaged in
her own quiet steady manner, assisting, relieving each in their several
duties, and doing much by her judicious suggestions, and calm activity,
to contribute to the ease of the sufferer.

Her father, Gerard's arrival was looked for with the greatest solici-
tude, as the harbinger of safety to the count. They all, the countess
especially, had such faith in his ability, it seemed as if his mere pre-
sence could avert danger, as if his fiat could assure life.

At length he came. For a time, his skill, together with the power
ful remedies he brought with him from Narbonne, as best suited to the
nature of the seizure which he learned to have been the count's, served
to restore the lord of Rousillon to something of his former health.
But he soon relapsed, languished, and remained for several weeks in a
state between life and death. During this period, he was assiduously
nursed by his countess and Helena, dutifully attended by his son Ber-
tram, and treated with the utmost of Gerard's care and skill.

, Indeed, only resources of art such as were known to this eminent
physician could have preserved him so long alive. Like a lamp spent
of oil, his flame of existence flickered from day to day, only held sus-
pended by the cherishing hand of friendly care, zealous to screen from
rude approach — to protect from extinction.

276 HELENA ;

Each day brought messengers from the court, charged with a»
Burances of sympathy and solicitude from the king, towards his esteemed
and faithful servant. Relatives and allies in Paris sent frequent des<
patches indicative of their interest in the progress of the count's dis-
order, and their hopes of his recovery. But royal kindness, friendly,
demonstrations of attachment, conjugal and filial attention, his physi-
cian's zeal and ability, were ii.effectual to rescue or to save ; after a pro-
tracted languish ment, the count Rousillon expired, surrounded by those
he loved, and respected by all who knew him.

Gerard who had a suite of apartments devoted to his use during his
sojourn at Rousillon, now talked of retiring to his duties at Narbonne.
The countess, much as she would have desired to retain so valued a
friend near her, could not withstand the plea that his poor patients
would have already missed him, and needed his presence. But as it
was fixed that when the period of mourning for his father should have
expired, Bertram should go to Paris and pay his respects to the king,
under the auspices of the count's old friend, the lord Lafeu, the countess
made it her entreaty to Gerard, that he would still indulge her with the
society of his daughter Helena.

He could not withold his consent to the bereaved countess in her
sorrow ; although he had learned to perceive the solace which his daugh-
ter's companionship would now afibrd to himself In his late renewed
intercourse with her, he had had opportunity of becoming acquainted
with her true worth. In the sobered and time-softened grief of his own
heart, in the comparative leisure of thought which his situation recently
permitted, he had been able to estimate the many excellencies of heart
and mind which distinguished his Helena, and he had now felt that her
presence would be as great a comfort as it had formerly been an in-
creased distress to him. But Gerard was not the being to allow a self-
ish motive, however powerful, to influence him, where the happiness of a
fellow-creature was involved in any sacrifice he could make ; therefore,
with a suitable acknowledgement to his patroness for her friendship
towards him and his, he prepared to return alone to Narbonne.

On the eve of the day fixed for his departure, he sought Rinaldo, the

THE physician's ORPHAN. 277

steward, and bade him make his excuses to the lady of Rousillon, or her
son, should either qf them enquire for him when the family assembled to
dinner, and to say that he had private business a league or two from the
chateau, which might probably defer his return until eventide. When
Rinaldo gave this message to his mistress, Helena happened to be with-
in hearing ; and on questioning the steward farther respecting her father,
she learned that which made her feel involuntary disquietude respecting
his sudden and unannounced absence. Rinaldo, who was a faithful and
attached servitor, and a remarkably discreet, observant man, owned tc
Helena that he had remarked tokens of agitation in the countenance of
her parent, and that his voice was perturbed, although both face and
tone seemed to be held in restraint, as if he would fain have assumed a
calm demeanour.

Helena, with earnest thanks to Rinaldo, besought him to add to his
kindness, by telling her in which direction her father had taken his way
through the park that morning ; for, perceiving the countess and her son
engaged together in conversation, she knew she could be spared, and
determined to await in the path by which he should come back, the re-
turn of her father, that she might the sooner satisfy her anxiety respect-
ing him.

The afternoon was lovely. As Helena crossed the drawbridge, the
stream, which supplied the moat, spread widening through the landscape,
and its waters, sparkling and glistening in the rays of the sun, gave
movement and brilliancy to the scene. Beneath the lofty trees of th6
park, the slanting beams shed golden light, diffusing a rich glow upon
the velvet turf beneath, making the green freshness more apparent,
whilst it cast twinkling shadows, and shone in ruddy patches upon bark,
and branch, and bole. Beneath t\ie shade, stood herds of deer, — the
late count having been at some pains to introduce the breed upon his
estate ; — some were standing at gaze, with their soft yet lustrous eyes
reflecting the brightness of some straggling sun-beam ; others reclining
their dappled bodies on the grassy sward ; some with their patient
mouths, ruminating; all whisking and vibrating their never-wearied
tails, in ceaseless rebuke of the flies, that hummed, and floated, and
glanced, and darted in the sunny air.

278 HELENA ;

Witli the mottled denixens of the park, as with all the animals aboa\
the domain, Helena was on excellent terms ; the lordly stag would scarce
withdraw his branching antlers from her reach, or the timid doe start
from her side, when she approached their haunts, and stood among them,
with some tempting morsel in her hand for them, or a gentle caress, or
a coaxing word of salute.

But now she tarried not to fondle the deer, but kept still on, hoping
to meet her father soon.

But the golden sun-rays ever slanted more and more ; the rich haze
on the landscape faded ; the glory settled downward, toward the hori-
zon ; the sky paled its azure hue ; the trees wore a veil of purple ; the
grass was bespread with dewy sheen ; and the still breath of evening
crept over all.

By and bye a star twinkled forth ; then another ; and .jgain more ;
and then the moon arose ; and yet Helena was seeking her father ; and
yet he came not.

She had reached the extremity of the park, and was hesitating
whether she might not miss him, by passing through the gate, and pro-
ceeding farther, when she perceived approaching at a distance a figure
that she at once recognized to be his.

She hastened towards him uttering his name.

He did not answer ; his face was rigid and deathly white ; for an
instant he looked wildly in her face ; then suddenly he caught her in
his arms, and burst into a passion of tears.

To behold the weeping of a man is always terrible ; to behold that of
a father, to feel his frame torn and shaken by the strength of an irre-
sistible emotion, to find herself clasped to his bosom convulsed and
swollen with the fierce strife between anguish and the desire to control
its expression, — how overwhelming to a daughter, a being like* Helena I

She strove to compose him, to control her own agitation that she
might the better soothe his. At length he found voice to say : —

" Bo not alarmed, my Helena ! Forgive me, my child ! It was
beyond my power, or you should not have witnessed this I But it has
saved your father, Helena ; it has relieved his bursting heart, which

THE physician's ORPHAN. 279

else must have broken ; and you will pardon your own pain, that it haa
assuaged his."

As they returned together, she gathered from his broken words that
he had been drawn by an invincible desire, to visit once more the old
pavilion (the farm itself had long since passed into other hands, on the
death of Gabrielle*s father), before he quitted, probably for ever, the
vicinity of a spot so hallowed to his remembrance. The scene itself,
however, had awakened so many tender memories, so many bitter re-
grets, had reopened such cruel wounds, that Gerard had been thrown
into a kind of swoon, from which he had only recovered to stagger forth
in renewed misery from a place that was fraught with so much anguish
of recollection. He had made his way back somehow, scarcely restored
from that fainting-fit, when the sight of his child and hers^ had merci-
fully brought forth the gush of tears which had in all probability pre-
served him from delirium or death.

But the blow had been dealt ; the sentence had passed. Although
the timely advent of his daughter had averted the immediate result, yet
Gerard had in reality received his mortal stroke in that old pavilion-
chamber. On reaching the chateau, he withdrew immediately to his
apartment, and would not permit his daughter to remain by his bedside,
though she entreated him long and urgently to let her stay with him.

On the next day, which had been fixed for his return to Narbonno,
he was compelled to acknowledge that he was unable to attempt the
journey, being too ill, indeed, to rise from his bed. Helena hung over
him, and besought him to tell her what might be devised for his relief.

*^ There is no medicine now that can give me life ;" said he. ^* One
there is, indeed, which might relieve this oppression — ^but it is no mat-
ter, it cannot avail to baffle death — it could only postpone his coming ;
his summons is already issued. Grieve not, my child, my Helena ; it
carries no terrors with it to me. The grave to me has long been a
wished-for haven, a peaceful refuge, where I may hope to rejoin my lost
one, and with her to abide evermore in that joyful realm beyond.

Helena by every winning persuasion, by every gentle art, taught her
by her loving perseverance of nature, strove to discover what and where

280 HELENA ;

this medicine was, that she might seek it, to lighten, if not destroy, hii
disease ; and at length Gerard told her. by way of putting a stop en-
tirely to her anxiety on the subject, that it was in a certain medicine-
chest in his little book-room at Narbonne.

Far from ending her solicitude on the point, this intelligence only
awakened an invincible desire to obtain the medicine, and she inwardly
resolved to set out for Narbonne herself in quest of it. She no sooner
beheld her father sink into a doze, than she stationed Isbel by his bed-
side, with an injunction to watch, while she herself went to the countess
of Rousillon and implored her permission to depart at once in search of
the medicine-chest her father had mentioned.

The countess applauded her pious resolve, but showing her that her
duty claimed her attendance by her father's side, even more than her
journey in quest of the remedy, prom?«ed Helena that she would send
her steward, Rinaldo, to Narbonne for the medicine-chest.

Upon her knees, Helena thanked the good countess for her sympathy
and help in a daughter's distress ; and once more repaired to her father's
bedside.

During that day, and part of the next, Gerard remained in a sort of
stupor. From this he awakened somewhat better, and spoke to his
daughter in a cheerful strain of hope and comfort. He bade her regard
his approaching death as he did, as a removal from suffering, as a
period to grief, and as a commencement of future joy. He told her
that her promising virtues and many excellencies gave him assurance
that their present separation would be but for a time. He spoke to
her candidly of the good he perceived in her, taught her how best to
cultivate and increase her natural tendencies towards it, and admon-
ished her how best to avoid those points where her virtues might lead
to error.

" You possess firmness, steadiness, constancy, my child," said he ;
" beware that they become not hardness, unrelentingness, obstinacy. You
have perseverance, indefatigable and indomitable courage, in pursuing
an object that you conceive to be right ; be well assured that the ob-
ject you seek is right, lest your perseverance involve you in evil, and

THE physician's ORPHAN. 281

jTonr courage be but rash encounter of peril and ultimate wrong. Tour
spirit of persistance may be productive of the highest good, so that you
let it not degenerate into obstinacy, wilfulness, or headstrong, irrational
inflexibility. Be sure that your motives are pure, your means inno-
cent, and your aim a hallowed one, and then give full scope to your
native disposition ; then let nothing abate your courage, then pursue
the dictates of your own resolved heart unswervingly, unflinchingly,
invincibly. I have that faith in your nature, — which is essentially lov-
ing and generous, as well as persistive,— -that gives me confidence, you
will secure your own welfare, win your own happiness."

" Would that you might live to witness it ! To behold the result of
your own instructions, my father !" said Helena. " Why cannot you
survive to see the maturing of your child's destiny, to give her fresh
precepts for making it a blest one ?"

^' That I might help towards such a consummation," said he, " I
could have wished my strength prolonged ; but it is not to be. My
breath is failing, and the revived speech that has been granted me, is
nearly exhausted."

" That remedy, that medicine, dear father, which you spoke of, ^'

'^ Ay, it might have lent me strength to speak longer to thee, my
child ; and for that it had been welcome. But it is at Narbonne ; and
it is but spent breath to sigh for that which is far away. I, who must
husband every moment's breathing now, for thy dear sake, my Helena,"
said her father, with a faint smile, ^^ will not waste a single gasp in vain
aspiration."

Helena returned his smile with a gay and hopeful one, as she whis-
pered : — " What if instead of being far away at Narrbone, that medi-
cine-chest,— which contains, I trust, health, and strength, and life for
my father, — were now on its way hither ? Actually coming ?"

" Is it so, my Helena ?" said her father, as if his effort at cheer for
oer sake, and the prospect of aid in his attempt, gave him renewed
tnergy. " Is it indeed so ?"

^' Ay, my father ; this is one of the instances of your Helena's perse
eerance, which I hope may deserve your approval, in spite of its having

282 HELENA ;

been maintained against, or rather without, your authority. I was sc
determined to obtain it, that I would have risked abandoning your sick-
bed, rather than not have it here ; but my dear lady, the countess, in
compassion for my anxiety, and in eagerness to secure aught that might
avail you, has sent Rinaldo to Narbonne for the medicine-chest ; they
expect him here every hour."

A glow of satisfaction dwelt upon Gerard^s features as his daughter
said this ; and for some time after she had spoken, he lay silent, with
the same expression of content upon his face. He seemed to be endea-
vouring to gain strength by rest and silence that he might speak farther
without exhausting himself entirely. He held out his hand to Helena
for hers, and laid it upon the pillow, beneath his cheek. A.fter a time
he said : —

" Besides the boon of respite to myself, which that medicine-chest
contains — a respite n6w welcome to me on thy account — it holds other
things which make its coming a satisfaction to me. In that box lie many
valuable secrets, the hoarded sum of many years* experience and prac-
tice. Recipes of various kinds for various disorders, jotted down at
divers times by myself; several rare unguents, drugs, and carefully-
extracted essences ; some subtle mixtures, distillations, and condensed
spirits ; together with explicit declaration of their curious qualities and
sovereign effects ; and also the mode of using these recondite medica-
ments. Besides this, my own words, should they be permitted, shall
explain to you the healing properties and peculiar nature of the several
contents of this chest, which I bequeath to you my Helena. It is the
fitting inheritance of a poor physician's child ; may it prove a legacy
eventually prosperous to her, as it has been hitherto advantageous to her
father. The abstruse calculations, the profound research requisite in
their formation, with the active duty and beneficial results attendant
upon their application and administration haye been a solace to him in
periods of misery, when no less engrossing a pursuit would have sufficed.
My art and its ministry have been a refuge to me, when all else upon
earth failed me. May its bequeathed treasures, the sole ones I have tc
bestow upon her, prove the basis of good fortune and the source of feli
city to my Helena !"

THE physician's ORPHAN. 283

Rinaldo soon returned to Rousillon, bearing with him the preoioua
Tiedicine-chest. The remedy, from which Gerard augured relief, is
efficacious. His death is deferred until he has fulfilled his desire of ac'
quainting his daughter with the contents of the box, and of making het
mistress of the numerous valuable secrets belonging to each. It seems
OS if life were but lent him until this task is effected, and as if life were
Txluable to him but so long as it may serve this end ; his purpose once
accomplished, he resigns life as a burthen, and his parting breath exhales
with the satisfaction of having devoted it as he could desire. To his
daughter — to the daughter of his Gabrielle — he dedicates his last sigh ;
and he bids her farewell in the hope of future and eternal reunion with
those two sole objects of his earthly affection.

The countess of Rousillon, practised in equanimity by past griefs,
not by want of sensibility, consoles the orphan by more maternal kind-
ness than ever. To her care and protection Helena has been consigned,
with a dying father's blessing on the long course of benevolence which
has already attended his child, and with his full confidence in its gra-
cious continuance. The countess and Helena support each other under
their respective losses, by mutual sympathy, tenderness, and affection.

The period of mourning passes in acts of charity and kindness towards
those without the walls of the chateau, and in gentle words and deeds
among each other, the surviving home-circle withinside.

The months creep by, and the time approaches for the departure of
Bertram. Helena's sorrow is twofold ; but although grief for her father's
loss serves to screen that which she feels prospectively, yet conscious love
bids her hide the tears which have so natural and so obvious a source,
lest their double origin be suspected. She dares not trust herself now
with Bertram ; and though she feels every moment's absence will be bit-
terly regretted hereafter, when a compelled separation will prolong the
present voluntary one, yet she shuns his presence, and inflicts this addi-
tional pain on herself, partly to inure herself to the coming one, partly
to hide the secret which she instinctively feels is ever ready to betray
its existence.

She seeks every pretext for keeping her chamber ; or wanders away

284 HELENA ;

Bolitariij through the park, where she may indulge her melancholy with
unobserved sighs and tears, and unheard plaints at her lowly fate, whiuu
forbids the hope of linking it with one so far above her.

" And were I not so humble of degree," she would murmur, " yet
still I am surely unworthy of him in this selfish passion which would
detain him here to waste his youth and nobleness in obscurity. Spirit
like his, pines for broader range than the tame sports of the chase ; rank
and wealth such as he owns, demand a wider field of benevolence apd
influence than a country estate ; and why should the personal graces
which adorn him bo denied to the court of his sovereign, and be doomed
to rust here unseen ? Not unseen ? ah, not unbcheld, unnoted, unglo-
ried in ! Only too dearly prized — too fondly worshipped ! And if but
by one sole worshipper, j^et the plenitude of her idolatry might replace
a train of less adoring devotees. How shall I bear his absence ? How
do I even now advance its season, by stealing from him, and abstaining
from the joint pain and delight of watching his face while yet it is near
me ! The time will come when I shall vainly wish to look upon the
well-known features ; and when, though pictured faithfully in memory,
I shall pine to trace them in their living beauty. Is it that I know my
unhappy love is painted on my own face that I fear to trust it within
his ken 7 Traitor to its mistress, it denies her the only joy she knows,
by revealing the too great depth of that joy. Unworthy face ! that lacks
beauty in itself, and betrays the suffrage it yields to his ; yet denying
by its treachery, the view of the very beauty and sweet favor whose
superiority it avows. And when the daily presence of that sweet favor
is withdrawn, shall I not feel like some benighted traveller who has ne-
glected the waning hours of light, and now wanders on in chill and
darkness, bereft of the blessed sun, who sheds his rays, and dispenses
warmth, and light, and comfort elsewhere ?"

Helena was strolling in the park while thus she mused, lamenting ;
the deer gathered round her, in expectation of their accustomed notice ;
but she paid little heed to them now, so occupied were her thoughts.

Presently she heard approaching footsteps ; and on raising her
heal, she was aware of an extraordinary figure that made its waj

THE physician's ORPHAN. 285

towards her, bowing, and congeeing, and reoommending itself to hei
notice.

It was that of a personage equipped in the most extravagant fashion
His suit was of saffron-colored taffeta, snipped and slashed, and guarded
with showy gilt lace, and hung with a profusion of glittering buttons and
gaudy scarfs. A pair of bright red hose garnished his legs, which, with
his anus, were bound with fluttering bows and ends of ribbon, that mado
all his limbs seem gartered alike. By his side hung a long sword ; in
his belt stuck a dagger ; and he wore a plumed hat very much on one
side, with a spruce defiant air, as if announcing the reckless, roystering,
bold soldado.

'^ Madam," said he, raising his hat, and advancing towards the spot
where Helena stood ; but cautiously and dubiously, with an eye cast
upon the stags and their towering antlers, which plainly indicated the
source of his hesitation. '' May I beseech of your ladyship's goodness
to inform me whether this be, as I suppose it is, the chateau and domain
of count Rousillon ?"

"It is, monsieur ;" answered she.

" And may I crave farther to know of your fair grace, whether his
lordship, the count Rousillon, be at present at the chateau ?"

Helena was about to reply, by mentioning the count's death ; but
bethinking her that Bertram was now count of Rousillon, she answer-
ed : — '' Unless the count has ridden forth, since I left the chateau, he is
probably at home now ; — but if you proceed to the gates, sir, the serv-
ants will inform you whether his lordship is able to receive you."

" I am charged with a letter to him from a dear college friend of
his, madam, introducing to his acquaintance my poor self, whom you are
to know by name as ParoUes, and by profession as a soldier. Of apper-
taining accomplishments which may claim your ladyship's favor, I shall
say nothing, as I trust to time for their discovery, or of deeds, as I think
fame may one day blow their record hither ; but I will rest my present
hope of a gracious reception, on your ladyship's own indulgence, of
which I behold assurance in that fair form and benignant aspect "

Helena bowed somewhat loftily to this flourish.

286 HELENA ;

^ I wonid crave permission to tender roy homage at once on yoni
ladyship's fair hand," said Monsieur Parolles, " but that I cannot reach
you, surrounded as you are by those antlered deer, in manner of Diana,
the huntress-goddess. My warfare has hitherto been with man, and not
with stags ; with ramparted fortalices, not with embattled antlers ;
otherwise I would make my way to you, through these living defences,
with my own good sword."

" You might not be permitted to assault the inoffensive herd, mon
sieur ;" said she. " The deer are held protected at Rousillon."

"I crave your ladyship's pardon; — but — which way lies the cha-
teau ?" said he, with another furtive glance at the deer.

" Yonder, monsieur ;" replied she. Then, observing iiis dismay at
finding that she pointed in a direction where a large troop of stags stood
immediately in the path, she added, when she had uttered a clear ring-
ing sound of call, to which the deer were accustomed as a signal to gather
close round her : — " You may pass on, monsieur, there is nothing to
fear !"

" Fear, madam !" exclaimed Parolles, as he hastily picked his way
forwards ; " fear ! But I shall find meeter opportunity, I trust, of con-
vincing you that fear and I are unacquainted, save as I inspire it to my
foes."

" I have a notion that monsieur is less to be dreaded as a foe than
as a friend ;" thought Helena, as the soldado disappeared. '^ It is not
the friendship of such a man as that, or I'm greatly mistaken, that the
count would have sought for his son."

Monsieur Parolles, having recovered greater dignity of step, after he
had lost sight of the deer, lounged on until he came to the drawbridge,
against a side-post of which leaned a tall, gangling lad, eating grapes
with great voracity, and chucking their stalks into the moat ; while near
to him stood a bright-eyed, cherry-cheeked damsel, who was holding the
basket of fruit which supplied the lad's enjoyment.

*' Now rest thee content, Isbel," he said, while he slightly varied his
occupation of chucking the grape-stalks away, by chucking the damsel
ander the chin ; " be not impatient ; I have promiseil to ask my lady's

THE physician's ORPHAN. 287

good leave ; and it shall not be my fault, if I do not shortly marry
thee !"

The damsel was about to reply, but looking up suddenly, and seeing
ParoUes approach, she tripped away abruptly, while the grape-eater
turned to see the cause of her startled withdrawal.

^^ Save you, fair sir ;" said he to the advancing stranger.

" Save you, good fellow ;" replied ParoUes.

" None of mine, sir ;" said the tall lad. " I hope I know my place
better than to claim fellowship with such a sober-suited gentleman. My
bauble and coxcomb would sort but ill with such apparel as that ;" said
he, pointing to the frippery which decorated the person of ParoUes ;
who replied : —

" I see, friend, now ; thou'rt the fool here."

" Ay, sir ;" said Lavatch ; " and no great argument of your wit that
you found not that out before. It is the part of wit to find out its coun-
terpart in others, giving it honor, where it exists ; as well as readily,
though pityingly, to discover its lack, where it exists not. I warrant
me now, the fool could sooner track out what amount of folly lies in the
gallant soldier, than you, the gallant soldier, can perceive folly where it
dwells openly, — in the fool."

" Go to, thou'rt privileged ;" was ParoUes' only answer.

" Marry, sir, and the privilege of a jester is like to have good scope
when such visitors approach the chateau ;" returned the clown. " We
have been dull enough of late ; mourning the dead is no season for jest*
ing. When good men die, and sincerity mourns, light-hearted folly
hangs its head for lack of employment, and takes to weeping for com-
pany."

" And so, my lord, the late count, was sincerely lamented, was he,
knave ? Think'st thou, in truth, no gleam of satisfaction lightened the
heir's regret, eh 7 No redeeming solace in the fact that the young lord
was now the old lord's substitute, — that the late count's title devolved
upon the present count ?"

" Faith, sir, I cannot tell ; the long-deferred hopes of heirship may
have such freaks of gladness ; joUy survivorship, that comes unezpeot

288 HELENA ;

edly into the property, may wink, from his place as chief-mourner, ai
grave-faced sympathy, watching the funeral train. Inheritance is a sore
test of tinith. The legatee-expectant tears his hair and beats his breast,
till the will be read ; then adieu to lamentation, and curses ensue.
Railing at dead men's wills is rifer than thanks ; and few people leave
testaments that pleasure all friends. He who would live well with his
relations after his decease, should make no disposal of his goods. Let
him, if he would have posthumous peace, leave his survivors to fight out
their respective claims, and battle among themselves their administra-
tion to his unbequeathed chattels. If he settle their dispute before-
hand by a will, they assault his memory, and abuse him. instead of
each other.

" I met one pale face in the park, that bespoke true sadness at heart,
matching the outer garb ;" said Monsieur Parolles. " It was that of a
young lady. Daughter or niece to the late lord Rousillon, I take it ?
Though I never heard that the young count mentioned a sister. He
spoke but of a mother."

" Marry, sir, the lady you met was no relation of our house. She
claims no title to the name of Rousillon. All her having is, that she's
good and fair ; all her descent is, poverty and an honest name ; all her
title is, Helena, the doctor's daughter."

" Poor ! A doctor's daughter !" exclaimed Parolles ; " truly, she
gave herself as many airs as though she had been Croosus' heiress;
and could not have spoken more haughtily, had she owned, not only the
whole herd of those confounded horned beasts — those outlandish branch-
headed animals — but the park where they range. She pointed to the
chateau with as magnificent a gesture as if she had been its sovereign
lady-mistress."

" It's strange what lofty style modest merit will ofttimes use, when
repressing presumption ;" said the clown. *' Besides. t!mid virgins gain
confidence from Valour's presencje ; and it might have been that your
worship's soldierly aspect inspired ma'amselle Helena with courage more
than ordinary — with enough to confront even audacity itself"

^' My address had nothing in it of presumption or audacity either, sir

THE physician's ORPHAN. 289

knaye ;" retorted Parolles. ^' I accosted her with only too much respect,
I find, DOW that I learn what her claims really are."

" By my troth, sir," said Lavatch, " simple worth, poor honesty,
native goodness, fair innocence, and such like claims to regard, are none
with those who know what is due to wealth, rank, and station. We men
of the world hold them at their true value. We use them both as they
ought to be used. Honesty and innocence, joined to poverty and
beauty, we make our prey; while wealth and high birth we adulate,
and contrive that its bounty shall requite our fawning. . Is't not so,
monsieur ?"

" I have not time to stay dallying here with thee, fool ;" said Pa-
rolles. *' I will find fitter time to argue conclusions with thee. For the
present, I shall desire thee to convey this letter to thy young master,
count Bertram of Bousillon ; and to inform him that its bearer is mon-
sieur Parolles, a gentleman, and a soldier ; and one, moreover, that is
known unto a mutual friend — the writer of that epistle.'*

" I will send the letter by the page to my young lord ;" said the
clown. ^' A fooPs office is to find occasion for mirth, and to furnish
matter for entertainment from his own poor mother-wit, not to bandy to
and fro the conceits of strangers, and play the go-between to other folks'
brains. Though the paper may be the work of folly, as well as the her-
ald and harbinger of folly, it shall not be the work of the fool to carry
it to my lord."

Monsieur Parolles' letter of introduction, — which set him forth as a
valiant and experienced soldier, a man of great knowledge, versed in
several languages, and a generally accomplished person, — was favorably
received by the youn;? count ; who welcomed his visitor with warmth
accordingly, retaining him at Bousillon as his friend and companion,
until his departure for Paris, and inviting him to go thither also.

After Helena's first meeting with the new visitor at the chateau, she
was a little surprised at the alteration in his mode of accosting her,
which was subsequently as impertinently familiar, as it had then been
observant and deferential ; but divining the true source of the change,
she was as much amused as surprised.

290 HELENA ;

The countess had just left the saloon, leaning on the arm of her son^
whom she was about to present with a valued memorial of his late father.
It was a ring, an heir-loom in the family, which she had hitherto pre-
served in a casket in her own private chamber, whither she now led the
way, with Bertram, that she might give liim some loving counsel at the
same time that she bestowed the jewel.

Helena was busied in arranging some carnations and myrtle in a
vase near the seat which was usually occupied by her benefactress, who
was fond of flowers ; and Parolles was lounging in a window-seat close
by, occupied in no more serious employment than tapping his fingers
with the point of his sheathed dagger.

" The young count will be glad to be absolved from attendance on
the maternal apron-string, though his present fealty is touching to be-
hold ;" said Monsieur Parolles. " We shall both be glad of enfranchise
ment from women's society — which hath its charms, doubtless — but
which is apt to be insipid after a time, to us who pant for congenial in-
tercourse with masculine minds, for manly pursuits, and stirring scenes,
and ambition, and wars, and active life. The only drawback I shall feel,
will be commiseration for the regret we shall leave behind us ; the gap
which our loss will create in the circle here."

'^ Monsieur Parolles hath the compasi^ionate tenderness which best
assorts with bravery ;" said Helena. ^^ Valour such as his, must always
be pitiful."

^^ It is as remorseful to its victims, as it is fearful to its opponents ;^'
said he.

" Fearful, certainly, with them ; who else ?" rejoined Helena. "Cour
age such as yours, monsieur, fears none so surely, as those who show it
a bold face at first."

" Poor devils ! they fear what they might trust, if they knew its
chivalrous consideration for the fallen ;" said Parolles.

" They might safely confide in its forbearance, I've no doubt ;" said
«be.

'^ Tou show some acquaintance with true valour, my princess of gen*

THE physician's ORPHAN. 291

tlewomen, and deserve its commendation in return ; I can tell thee, I
approve thy perspicacity exceedingly."

'^ I hope it will always serve me to distinguish true valour from its
counterfeit, monsieur Parolles ;" said she, curtseying to him.

Some days elapsed ; and then the lord Lafeu arrived, bringing with
him a gracious mandate from the king, containing his majesty's desire
to see the young count Bertram of Bousillon at court.

The countess receives the valued friend of her husband with high-
est tokens of respect and cordiality, although he is come with the ex-
press purpose of taking away her son, so doubly dear to her now, since
she has lost his father, whose image he is in shape and feature.

Previous to their setting forth, the whole company assembles in the
saloon at Bousillon. The countesp presents her favorite Helena to the
excellent old lord Lafeu, who speaks kindly and encouragingly to the
maiden.

For poor Helena is endeavouring to master her emotion, to conceal
her overwhelming grief. Now that the time is actually come, for part-
ing with the object of her secret passion, she knows not how to suppress
her sobs and tears ; and is relieved when the countess's timely allusion
to her father's loss, affords a pretext for allowing them to flow unre-
strainedly.

She weeps, and says : —

^ Ido affect a sorrow^ indeed^ and yet I have it too"

orowD.

The rest of Helena's fortunes is set forth where ' still the fine's tbe

DESDEMONA; THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD

M

TALBI7.

DESDEMONA; THE MAGNIFTOO'S CHILD.

"A maid
That paragons descriptioo, and wild fame ;
Ona that ezcela the qui^ of blazonuig peiMi
And in the enential nmun of creation,
Doea bear all excellency."

OtkeUtk

The goDdola glided on. Beneath its black awning,— extended at full
length upon its black leather cushions, — lay a young man, clothed in a
suit of deep mourning. But in his face there was nothing that assorted
with these swart environments. No shadow, save the one from the sad-
colored curtains, d'arkened the countenance, which was radiant with
hopeful happy thoughts. No regret for the past, no misgiving of the
future, cast a single cloud athwart the sunshine of his fancy, reflected
so beamingly in his look. For though the suit he wore was for a father,
yet so harsh a parent, so unreasonable a tyrant had that father been,
that his recent decease was felt to be emancipation from slavery, rather
than a loss and a sorrow. Death had freed the young man from a more
intolerable bondage than that of body — thraldom of spiilt; and he was
now hastening to claim the dearest privilege of human liberty — choice
in love, in marriage, — which had hitherto been denied to him. In de-
ference to his father's will, in dread of his father's power, — which would
not have hesitated at aught that could secure their sway, — this young
man had carefully concealed an attachment he had conceived for a very
beautiful girl of humble fortunes, and the marriage to which this attach-

296 DESDEMONA j

ment had led. But now, that he was free to avow his choice, — to confei
on her the rank which was hers by right, but which she had consented
to waive until such time as he could safely proclaim it hers, — he lost no
time in seeking her, that she might share his home, his name, and the
titles and honors with which his father's decease had invested him.

Yet, with the true romance of a young lover, he preferred even now
seeking her in the quiet unostentatious style with which he had hitherto
stolen to the humble quarter where she lived. The secrecy that he had
till now been compelled to observe, was still maintained from choice.
The simple gondola, unblazoned with the arms of his family, and pro-
pelled by a single boatman, — his own confidential servant, suited best
with the coy reserve of love, jealous of betraying its cherished privileges
to worldly or indifferent eyes. With the lingering fondness we feel for
things which have afforded us a secret pleasure, even at the moment
when we are about voluntarily to yield them, this young husband still
clung to the mystery which had lent such a charm to the furtive inter-
views which had until now been the only ones he could allow himself
with his Erminia ; and on the very occasion when he was about to bring
her forth to the world, the coroneted wife of a Venetian magnifico, he
yet once again indulged himself with a meeting which should retain the
old charm of secrecy and silence, all enshrouded from observance,
either of form and ceremony, or of idle curiosity. The coming time,
when he should present to his friends this wife in all her magnificence
of beauty — so well fitted to adorn the magnificence of wealth and sta-
tion to which she would then be raised — was not without its promise of
pleasure ; but meantime, his fancy found still choicer pleasure in dwell-
ing upon all the circumstances of simple happiness which had hitherto
marked his wedded life.

He closed his eyes, and leaned back upon the gondola-cushions, as
the boat glided on in smooth unison with the current of his thoughts.
Luxuriously, placidly, they flowed on, picturing the successive events of
his recent existence. His memory presented none but pleasant images.
He retraced the first time he had beheld his Erminia. He remembered
well the sultry afternoon, when, returning by an obscure and unfreqnen^

THE ICAGNIFICO'S CHILDt 297

ed canal, from a loDg course he had been taking in his gondola, he ob-
served her seated by the side of her old blind father, just within the
tawny shadow of the curtain which screened their doorway. He re-
membered how he had thought her of a saint-like beauty, as she leaned
towards the old man, with her soft full eyes fixed upon his sightless
ones, in tenderness, in sympathy, in anxiety to discover how best she
might minister to his comfort or his joy. As the folds of the heavy
curtain fell around her, and cast the reflection of their warm orange hue
upon her upturned face, and shed a deep golden suff'usion iv^und her rich
hair, and over her bending figure, she had seemed an incarnation of im-
mortal goodness and grace. He remembered even ihe small window,
above the doorway, with its stage and trellis of commonest wood ; yet
filled with luxuriant leaves, and blossoms, and branches, some trained,
some drooping and flaunting, that bespoke taste, and womanly arrange-
ment, and love of natural beauty, which could bring plants to aid in
concealing the almost squalid plainness of their dwelling. He remem-
bered his unwonted timidity, which bade him hesitate, ere he stepped
from the boat, and ventured to approach the old man, with an offering
of some flowers which he had just brought from the pleasure gardens
that his father possessed on the nearest shore of the main land. He
remembered the courteous action, almost mingled with condescension,
with which the old blind man had accepted the gift ; approving their
beauty, which the redolence of their perfume rendered perceptible to
him, and thanking the profferer for enabling him to enjoy a pleasure
rare indeed to a dweller in the city of the sea, and doubly welcome to
one whose pleasures of sense were so limited. The manner in which
the blind man expressed himself, had struck the younger one, as betoken-
ing rank and breeding far superior to his apparent condition ; while the
gracious beauty of his daughter seemed no less indicative of a higher
grade than their coarse garments and obscure dwelling proclaimed. He
remembered how soon after that first interview, he had sought another.
He remembered the moonlight night when he had first encountered her
alone ; when, catching a glimpse of her within the little embowered win-
dow, he had succeeded in persuading her to allow him a few moments'

298 DESDEMONA j

converse. He well remembered how these moments had been hasty ai«d
reluctant at first ; how they had gradually been permitted to lengthen
as he lingered ; how they had subsequently swelled to hours, as he
learned from her her story, and that of her father, who had been born a
nobleman, and created an admiral ; but who, from reverse of fortune,
and a haughty spirit that could neither seek favor unjustly withheld,
stoop to beseech where he ought to have commanded, nor consent to
wear a title when he had lost the means that should enable him to sup-
port it with dignity, had proudly retired to a life of indigence and ob-
scurity with his only daughter Erminia. The young man learned from
her, that soon after the reverse of fortune, two far worse blows had be-
fallen them, in her/ather's blindness, and in the news which reached of
the death of their beloved Gratiano, lier brother ; a youth full of pro-
mise, who had fallen in his first naval engagement. From all that Er-
minia said, the young man gathered that her father had lost nothing of
his proud spirit with his altered fortunes ; that the old nobleman's pa-
trician blood mantled high as ever ; that the old naval officer's sense of
dignity abated no jot of its keenness and consciousness ; that the penni-
less blind man, who depended on his daughter's needlework for the
bread he ate, entertained a no less exalted notion of what was due to
his own honor and to hers, than he had done when in the plenitude of
his wealth, and surrounded by every distinction of birth and renown.

Hence it came, that the young man had truly guessed how fruitless
it would be to endeavour to gain this proud, though indigent father's
sanction to the private marriage into which he hoped to persuade the
daughter. He felt that it was not more vain to attempt obtaining his
own father's consent to a match with a girl of Erminia's lowly fortunes,
than it would be to induce hers to listen to anything like a proposal for
a union that was to remain unavowed ; he therefore dedicated all hig
efforts to prevail upon the maiden herself to bestow her hand upon him
in secret, and to preserve the knowledge that she had done so, from
every one, including even her father. He remembered how many
reiterated pleadings, evening after evening (always choosing the twilight
hours for stealing thither, when the old blind man had retired to rest

THE HAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 299

that he might have nninterrapted communion with his mistress), it had
cost him, ere he could induce her to listen to his scheme, even after he
had obtained from her the confession that^her love equalled his own.
He remembered how firmly she had withstood his most persuasive argu-
ments, his most urgent appeals. He remembered how her refusals had
waxed fainter and fainter, as her conviction grew of the constancy as
well as fervour of his attachment. He remembered how her steadiness
had been unable to remain proof against the sight of his pale face after
a fit of illness that had seized him, and detained him from their usual
meetings for more than a week's interval. He remembered hqfir he had,
with the pardonable craft of love, laid his malady solely to the amount
of protracted anxiety, and of the suspense in which his affections were
held, so long as she refused to become his wife. He remembered well
the blushing consent that ensued ; the stealthy repairing to church ;
the privily-pronounced vows, before a priest won to concealment ; the
stolen joys of subsequent meetings, — enhanced to the young man's
sense of delight by their difficulty, their romance, their mystery : for his
father was jealous of his paternal controul, and interfered unremittingly
in the disposal of his son's time.

And still as the gondola glided onwards, the young man's thoughts
recurred to each happy recollection associated with his married love.
He saw her still, as she looked, that blissful hour, when, whispering the
blushing avowal that he had truly surmised the cause of her altered
mien, he learned his prospect of becoming a father. He saw the smile
with which she raised her head from his bosom, and told him playfully
she had never thought to contemplate her father's want of sight as
aught but an affliction ; but now she was tempted to regard it as fortu-
nate for himself, inasmuch as it prevented his diBcerning a change in his
child, which might have inspired painful doubts of her honor and his
own, ere the time should arrive when all would be cleared by the avowal
of her marriage. The young man's heart leaped as he remembered that
now this time had arrived, and that the avowal would take place before
the birth of her child should impugn Erminia's fair fame either with
her father or with any one else. He thought of the joy this would be to

300 DESDEMONA ;

ber ; and he urged the speed of his boatman, that the sooner might bi
imparted those tidings which were to make her and all she loved so happy.

But the gondola had Been gliding on and on, all the time of bin
reverie ; and it had now nearly reached the distant canal, on the banks
of which, Erminia and her father dwelt. Suddenly, the young man
bade the gondolier pause, and ^ allow the vessel to float softly up the
narrow inlet towards the house. One more stealthy proceeding on the
spot which had been the scene of so many, ere the young man exchanged
for ever mystery for display, secrecy for courted observation, privacy for
a worldly life of show, and riches, and high station. He determined
once again to steal quietly to the lowly dwelling, as he had so often done
before, and indulge himself by seeing his wife before she was aware of
his approach. There was a nook near, from whence he could clearly
distinguish her, as she sat within her chamber, through the embowered
window already mentioned. He had frequently taken pleasure in watch-
ing her thus, himself unseen, that he might mark her placid look, as
she sat, half hidden among the green leaves, at work, unconscious of
his vicinity ; and contrast it with the glow that lighted up her face when
he entered her presence, and she beheld him. He could not resist the
impulse which bade him lurk there now; but he had no sooner raised
his eyes to the trellised window, than a sight met them, which blast-ed
them as if by a stroke of lightning.

Gould it be ? Was it indeed his own Erminia, his wife — his chaste
treasure — his modest beauty — she whom he believed to be spotless as
unsunned snow — could it be she, whom he now saw enfolded in a
stranger's arms, clasped to his bosom, with caresses which she returned
with no less warmth than they were bestowed ? Yet again he saw those
hateful embraces. Still she clung round the man's neck, and pressed
her lips passionately to his ; while still he rained kisses on her eyes, her
cheeks, her throat.

The young husband, with one bound, made his way to the prow of
the gondola, seized the boathook from his attendant's hand, plunged it
into the water, with a single stroke pushed the vessel to the landing
place, and sprang ashore.

THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 30 1

He darted up the narrow staircase, and burst into the ohaoiber
^ith one torrent of incoherent reproach and grief he relieved his fall
heart ; and, scarcely heeding that his abrupt appearance and vehement
words so overwhelmed his wife with terror, that she stood speechless,
gazing at him, unable to articulate one word, he flung out of the room
again as suddenly as he had entered, rushed down stairs, leaped into his
boat, and signed to the gondolier to speed away.

The instant her husband disappeared, Efminia dropped to the floor
in a swoon. The stranger hung over her : — ^" Sister, dear sister !" he
exclaimed ; " is this to be our meeting after all ? Am I miraculously
preserved from death, only to return and behold thee die at my feet, —
before my very eyes ? Sister, sweet Erminia ! look up ! Speak ! Look
up ! He is gone ! Do not shudder thus. Speak, dear Erminia."

Her brother raised her from the floor, and tenderly supporting her
as he knelt, endeavoured to restore her to animation ; but she no sooner
gave tokens of coming to herself, than the image of her husband in his
transport of grief and wrath seemed to strike her back into senselessness,
and she was still lying thus, half prostrate, her head supported against
her brother Gratiano's bosom, an occasional convulsive shudder alone
giving token that she lived, when the old blind man, her father, appeared
at the door of the room.

The sound of his child's fall, when she swooned, had roused him as
he sat below ; he had groped his way slowly up the stairs, and now stood
there calling upon her name, who lay unconscious of his presence.

^' Erminia, my child, where art thou ? Why dost not answer ? Haa
aught happened ? Art thou ill ?" said the old man.

^^ Softly ; she has fainted ; but I trust to recover her soon ;" whim-
pered Gratiano.

^' Merciful heaven ! What voice is that ?" exclaimed the blind man.
*• Can the dead spoak ? Can the waves give me back my son ? My boy 1
Gratiano !"

With distress the youth now perceived, that his intention of gradu
ally preparing his father to the knowledge that he was still alive, had
been frustrated ; while the spasmodic working of the old man's faoa

302 DESDEMONA ;

as he eagerly turned his sightless eyes, and stretched his tremUing
hands towards the voice, showed the powerful effect his so suddenly
coming to this knowledge had upon him, and how necessary it was to
devise some means of soothing his agitation.

Oratiano gently rested the still-shuddering frame of his sister in a
reclining position, speaking a few words the while, in as composed a
voice as he could command, to his father ; but the mere tone seemed to
renew all the blind man's e!^citement, and it was not until his son had
come towards him, had suffered him to strain him in his arms, to feel
his face, his hands, and again to embrace him closely, that the father
seemed capable of attaining conviction of the reality of his son's restora-
tion to life and to him.

" But where is Erminia? She should know of her brother's return.
Where is my child, my Erminia ? Did not some one say she had been
ill ? That she had fainted ? But where is she ? Lead me to her I"
The old man spoke in great perturbation ; his hands shaking, his lips
quivering, his face twitching violently.

" Dear sir, be calm ; for her sake, be calm ; she is very ill — she is
still in a swoon ; when she comes to herself, let her not find you thus.**

Oratiano, thinking that possibly the best means of allaying the blind
man's wild alarm, would be to give him a tangible object of anxiety,
and trusting also that its being familiar to its touch would make it a
source of comfort, led his father gently to the spot where Erminia lay,
and by her side they both knelt down, the old man bending over her,
touching her pale face and hands softly, and murmuring words of won-
der and lament, while her brother renewed his efforts to restore her to
consciousness.

But nature herself aided him ; in the imperious demand to bestow
life, the young girl was recalled from her death-like trance. Pang suo-
oecdcd pang ; each throe was followed by another ; while the effort to
stifle her groans could not prevent their reaching the ear of her old
blind father, who wrung his hands, wept piteously, vainly seeking to
help his daughter in her extremity, now wondering its cause, now de-
ploring her plight.

THE MAGNIFICO^S CHILD. SOS

Oratiano, who had run to abtain assistance, now returned with one
or two women, neighbours, who hastened in with him, and proceeded to
minister to the sufferer, and aid her in her hour of peril.

An hour of peril that hour of travail was ; a painful hour, a sad
hour, an hour never to be forgotten by the youth ; for, as he received
the new-born babe in his arms, and drew near to the spot where his
father sat, in the hope that this new call upon his tenderness might
serve to rouse the old man from his grief, he perceived with dismay
that he was rigid and motionless ; that he had expired in the very
nioment which had just given birth to his grandchild.

In the distress, the anxiety, the eagerness, the perplexity of the
scene, the old blind man had tottered disregarded, to a corner of the
room, where he had come to the terrible half-knowledge of his daughter's
secret ; and so, smitten to the heart with the thought of shame, dis-
honour, disgrace, he had clasped his hands, bowed his head, yielded to
the stroke, and died as he sat.

With the unnatural calmness that such extremes of distressful
chance sometimes produce, Oratiano replaced the baby in the woman's
arms ; and then raising in his own his father's dead body, he bore it re-
verently and quietly from the room, lest his sister should come to the
knowledge of this fresh calamity.

But she was happily out of reach of the consciousness of that, or any
other misery. She had sunk exhausted, into a kind of stupor, which
held her for many hours.

It was not until the first grey dawn, on the following morning, that
she awoke to a perfect consciousness of her condition. Her brother,
Gratiano, who sat watching by her bed-side, took her hand, spoke sooth-
ingly to her, and was relieved to find how composed her manner now
was. Her voice was calm, as she replied to his fond enquiries ; her faoo
was serene as she spoke ; and there came a radiant smile over it, as a
little cry reached her ear.

" Hark ! it is mine — it is my child !" And the young mother lookod
fondly and fully happy, as they brought the babe, and laid it to her bosom.

'^ Dear brother ! Dear Oratiano ! How good, how tender you are to

304 DESDEMONA j

your Erminia ;" she said. " To have you thus and now returned in life
is doubly and trebly a boon. You will restore your sister to happiness,
as you have already by your care redeemed her from death. You will
go to him — ^you will let him know how — I see it all now — I understand
his error — you will explain to him, you will tell him ; will you not, my
brother?"

"I? Whom do you speak of? To whom should I go?" Altered
Gratiano.

"To my husband — to Brabant io. I understand his mistake — I
writhe to think of his agony in believing his Erminia false. O hasten)
dear Gratiano, to relieve his suffering — to let him know the truth."

" His agony ? his suffering ?" said her brother ; " what agony did he
not inflict ?" And he beheld again his swooning sister, his sorrowing
blind father, the distressful travail, the new-born infant, and the old man
struck with death.

^•' He was deceived — ^he could not guess the truth — he knew not you
were my brother — he thought Gratiano dead, as we all believed ;" said
she eagerly. " But how did my father bear the blest news of your
being still in life ? I remember, we agreed, I was to break it to him
gently, lest the sudden bliss should be too much for the dear old man.
And see, he will have another happiness, in his Erminia's child ; for we
will have no reserves now, and I will obtain my Brabantio's leave to tell
my father all.

Thus the young mother prattled on, full of the hope which sprang
from her own new happiness in the child that was born to her ; while
she bent over it hoveringly, caressingly, as it lay softly breathing beside
her.

" Is it not beautiful, dear Gratiano ? What will be Brabantio's joj
to behold it ! How will my dear old father love to press it in his arms,
— to feel its soft cheeks and hands ! I long to see my father — ^you have
not yet told me how he bore your tidings, Gratiano. How is he ?
Where is he?"

'* I have laid him on his bed — ^he is quiet now — ^best let him rest,
iear sister; we all have need of rest;" said Gratiano in a low voice.

THE MAGXIFICO'S CHILD. 304

'^ True, I am selfish in my own content ; I forget that you have been
watching, my brother. Take some sleep ; and when the sun is high, and
you are well rested, you will go and carry comfort to Brabantio — ^you
will take joy to my husband's heart ; will you not, Gratiano ?"

^ Sleep you, my sister ;" he whispered, as he leant down, and kissed
her cheek.

^' I cannot sleep without your promise, dear Gratiano !" smiled she.
'' Give it me."

He gave her the promise, and soon had his reward in seeing her sink
into a slumber, peaceful, sweet, happy. He felt that he needed some
such reward ; for the promise he had given . was most reluctant.

" And yet," he thought. " who has she but her brother to tee her
righted, to see her restored in her husband's esteem, avowedly an honor-
able and honored wife. It must be done ; and yet to seek that ungovern-
ed madman, to ask his quiet hearing while I speak, — his hearing, whose
imperious irrationality deigned not even to await an explanation of what
he beheld — ^voluntarily to meet again him, whose rashness periled my
sister's life, his own child's existence, and actually, — if not directly, —
caused my father's death, is a hateful tasL But it is for her. Let me
school myself to its patient fulfilment."

When Erminia next awoke, it was broad day ; yet she still found her
brother keeping faithful watch beside her.

She thanked him for his fond caro ; but her wistful eyes, fixed on his,
seemed to remind him of his promise, — seemed still to demand one act of
devotion in her behalf which should outweigh in her estimation all that he
had yet done ; which should be of more worth to her than any personal
tendance, however fond, and without which, all his ministry towards her-
self would prove comparatively valueless, — useless.

He saw that her solicitude on this point would render vain any other
means he might take to keep her as free from agitation of mind and body
as her state required ; he saw too, that her anxiety on this subject, her
longing to have her husband's misapprehension rectified, her desire to be
reconciled to him, to behold him, absorbed all other considerations, even
to the exclusion of farther thought respecting her father ; yet he dread-

806 DE8DBM0NA j

ed that at any moment the idea might reour to her, and then, should he
not be at hand to prepare her gently for the old man's sudden deatn. shf*
might learn it with fatal abruptness from some one less cautious than
himself He resolved therefore, at all events, not to set out on his quest oi
Brabantio, until he should have previously possessed her with the know-
ledge of their loss.

Carefully, gradually, by gentle degrees, he led her to the fact. He
awakened alarm ; he allowed her to surmise that all was not well, — that
the news of his son's unexpected redemption from death had dangerously
affected their father, — that he had been seriously indisposed, — that he
was not better — that he was worse — that he was deal.

Amidst the grief which this intelligence occasioned his sister, Gratiano
rejoiced to perceive that no suspicion reached her of the share which her
own condition had had in dealing the old man his death-blow. His son's
unhoped-for reappearance in health and life thus suddenly, seemed to
afford her sufficient ground to account for their father's fatal seizure ;
and her brother sedulously avoided any mention that could undeceive
her.

Soon however, her first concern resumed its dominion ; and Oratiano
could perceive that again the thought of the husband surmounted that
of the father ; her anxiety exceeded her grief; still, though he could not
but be content that aught should subdue the poignancy of her sorrow,
yet with the inconsistency of affection, he half grudged that she should
owe the mitigation of her distress to such a source ; it seemed like de-
riving comfort from the thought of him whose intemperate fury had been
the origin of all their misery.

But there was no resisting those pleading eyes, that ever meekly yet
earnestly sought his, beseeching him to commiserate a wife's impatience
to be restored in grace, esteem, and honor, to a husband's loving arms.

Could he withhold so dear a boon from one so dear to himself, when
it was in his own power to compass her desire, and bestow what would
make her so supremely happy ? At whatever cost to his own feelings,
it should be done ; he would seek this rash husband without delay, and
earry him joy and comfort, that hers might be secured.

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD. 307

With a few words to his sister, telling her his errand, and bidding
her be of good cheer until his return, Oratiano left her ; hurried to the
nearest landing where gondolas were plying, hired one, leaped into it,
and bade the boatman convey him to Signer Brabantio's palace on the
grand canal. As the vessel cut through the water, the gondolier, with
the loquacity of his calling, descanted upon the wealth, rank, and sump-
tuous style of the young magnifico, who had recently come into the
possession of all the family dignities and possessions, by the recent death
qf his father.

^^ He does not want for pride, though, any more than his father before
him, they say ;" said the man ; ^' or for a spice of arrogance to boot, and
a haughty disdain of those beneath him, to the back of that. But thus
it is ; the tyrannous father makes^the slavish son, so long as the old one
lives, only that he may be the tyrant in his turn ever after."

As the humble hired gondola turned into the grand canal, and neared
the dwelling of Brabantio, Gratiano found the palace steps surrounded
by a rich train of boats filled with officers of different grades, followers,
attendants, and all the retinue of a Venetian nobleman drawn up to
await his coming forth.

Presently the magnifico appeared at the door of the hall of entrance,
and as he paused for an instant on the marble esplanade which headed
the flight of steps leading down to the water, that he might give some
parting orders to a domestic, Gratiano pushed his way through the crowd
of attending gondoliers and stepped upon the lowest stair of the step.

His approaching figure caught the eye of Brabantio, who no sooner
glanced towards him, than the blood which flew up into both the young
men's faces, showed their mutual recognition.

But as the magniflco, endeavouring to master his emotion, began to
descend the marble flight, with as lofty a step as he could assume,
Gratiano advanced, and showed plainly that he was about to address
him ; which Brabantio perceiving, stopped short, and hastily laid hiift
hand on his dagger.

^^ Beware, my lord, of violence, which you will repent hereafter, more
than any one ;" exclaimed Oratiano.

308 DESDEMONA ;

" Thou art unworthy my weapon, fellow;" said the magnifico; " ftftnd
from my path, or one of my knaves shall rid me of thy presence."

*• For Erminia's sake. I bear thy injurious words, rash lord ;" said
Qratiano ; " but for her sake also, hear me in return."

" Par'st thou name her, villain — and to me ?" said Brabantio, turn-
ing as white with rage, as he had before flushed scarlet with surprise.

" Hear me. my lord ; give me five minutes' private audience ;"
Oratiano said, thinking of his sister, and compelling himself to patience.

" Not for the wealth of Venice would I hold one moment's parley
with thee ;" retorted Brabantio ; " stand back, I say ! or by St Mark,
I'll have thee forced back into the canal, and drowned like a dog as
thou art."

" Nay then, thou shalt hear me declare aloud, what, in pity to thy-
self, I would have told thee less publicly, proud lord ; learn all in one
word — I am Erminia's brother "

" Her brother ! He is dead !" exclaimed Brabantio ; but on uttering
his last sentence, Oratiano had turned on his heel, and was retreating to
the gondola in waiting for him, when the faltering words "I beseech you,
stay, sir ; in pity to my wonder, let me know this strange mystery ;"
reached his ear, and made him retrace his steps.

The magnifico waved the bystanders aside, and hastily led Oratiano
into the palace towards his own private room.

Here all was explained ; all revealed ; and with so little of reproaoh,
save what the bare narrative of the past night's events could not fail of
carrying to the heart of Brabantio, that he was fain to confess Oratiano's
generosity, and to own that such forbearance inspired even greater
compunction than the bitterest blame could have called forth.

He would have grasped the youth's hand, as he besought his forgive-
ness for the insult he had offered, for the injury he had caused ; but
though Oratiano accorded a frank pardon for those wrongs which
regarded himself, he could not help shrinking from clasping palms with
a man whose ungoverned temper excited his contempt, and whose preci-
pitancy had occasioned irreparable evil.

But in Brabantio's eagerness to hasten to his Erminia, to behold hif

THE MAGNIFIC0*8 CHILD. 309

wife, and the child she had brought him, her brother's reluctant hand
passed unnoticed ; and he thought but of urging that they should lose
no time in returning to relieve her suspense.

No more welcome proposal could have been made ; and Brabantio
and Oratiauo once more repaired to the marble landing, stepped into the
nobleman's gondola together, and took their way toVards the humble
dwelling so soon to be no longer that of Erminia.

The very first hour she could bear removal, Brabantio's impatience
to see her his acknowledged wife, and installed in the rank and dignity
which belonged to her of right through him, caused her to be conveyed
with their infant daughter to the palace on the grand canal; but no pei-
suasions of his sister or her husband could induce Gratiano to accompany
them thither. He retained the old humble dwelling which had been his
father's and Erminia's in the days of their penury, saying he had a sort
of fancy for it as a quiet bachelor abode.

But he did not long occupy it. On the very night of the grand
entertainment which was given by Brabantio in honor of his daughter,
the infant Desdemona's baptism, Oratiano quitted Venice. Without
explanation, without leave-taking, he disappeared ; and for many years,
was neither seen nor heard of there.,

Meantime, the joy of Erminia, save for this one exception, seemed
complete. Restored to her husband's good graces — the brief forfeiture of
which appeared only to enhance the delight of their present possession
—happy in his society, living with him in honor and dignity, sharing
with him his noble name and high position, watching with him the
infant perfections of their child, the life of Erminia was now as uninter-
ruptedly bright, as it had formerly been chequered, anxious, and sad.
Brabantio was proud of her ; proud of her beauty, which reflected credit
on his choice, and offered sufficient warrant for the imprudence of a
youthful and private marriage ; proud of her grace, her benign aspect,
her air of refinement, her gentle birth and breeding, which rather sh^d
additional lustre on the rank to which he had raised her, than received
aught from its bestowal upon herself ; j»>oud that she plainly showed,
what was indeed the truth, that her marriage had only replaced her ii

310 dbsdemona;

that statioD, to whioh her parentage entitled her, though from whioh
misfortune had for a time withdrawn her ; proud that her every look
and gesture bespoke her to be of equal nobility with himself

In every costly gratification, in every luxury of attendance, of dwell-
ing, of attire, of ornament, her husband's desire to consult her taste and
pleasure was unbounded. He loved to see her profuse in expenditure,
and environed by every thing that could proclaim his wealth, and hiB
wish to make it contribute to her enjoyment. He rejoiced in displaying
her as the magnifico's bride, as the lady of the Venetian nobleman, as
the wife of the senator, the grandee, the man of rank, of opulence, of
distinction. He liked to make her the medium of exhibiting his magni-
ficence, his affluence, his power and importance in the state. He chose
that the splendour of the lady Erminia's household, the lady Erminia*B
retinue, the lady Erminia's garments and jewels, should surpass those
of any other lady in Venice, because the lady Erminia was the spouse
of Signior Brabantio.

But though surrounded by all these evidences of a husband's proud
affection and respect, and of his desire that she should appear thus their
object in the eyes of the world ; yet there lurked half unconsciously in
Erminia's heart, a feeling that she would have been contented with far
less glare and ostentation in her lot. She was by nature gentle and
modest ; contented with little, while eager for much ; careless of worldly
possessions, though solicitous to possess the first treasure in the world ;
indifferent to money and money's acquisitions, covetous of happineM
and affection.

Yet though her modesty would have led her to prefer less parade
with more of domesticity in her way of life ; still, that very modesty
prevented her wish from assuming shape and substance, since it would
have militated against what was so evidently her husband's desire;
consequently there the preference remained, lurking, unavowed, almost
unsuspected, even by herself, while she continued to lead the kind
of existonce which seemed one of happiness, since it was such to
Brabantio.

As long as he appeared pleased, how could she be otherwise ? And

THE HAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 311

for some time, nothing ooctirred to mar his content, or disturb his
complacency. Amid a round of gaiety, of brilliant entertainments, of
successive festivities, of growing emoluments and honors in the state,
the magnifico's satisfaction seemed full to repletion ; but perhaps it was
this very plentitude which led to satiety, and then induced waywardness,
and at length brought on recurring fits of his old temper, which had
once produced such unhappy results. He had inherited a naturally
haughty disposition from his father; his position fostered pride and
wilfulness ; unthwarted by fortune, idolized by his wife, he could
scarcely fail to gain fresh conviction of his importance and irresponsible
power ; insensibly he became more and more capricious and -lomineer-
ing ; he indulged his arrogance ; he allowed himself to use expressions
of disdain, to give way to bursts of choler upon trivial occasions; and in
short forgot to keep that strict guard upon his temper, which he had
once promised himself he would maintain, after the memorable occasion
when his impetuosity had nearly poisoned his whole existence, and that
of the beings most dear to him.

So complete was the infatuation of Erminia's fondness for her hus-
band, that she remained unaware of this growing evil in his humour ; it
was so gradual in its increase, too ; it so imperceptibly became his habit ;
and besides, she herself never being its object, it presented itself so
much less palpably than it might otherwise have done to her perception,
that she was still unconscious of Brabantio's change of mood.

She never dreamed that the ingenuous young man who had first won
her heart in the obscure retreat where he had discovered her, content to
sue for her love, to woo her humbly and perseveringly, and to make her
his wife in unostentatious privacy and retirement, — ^who had consented
to visit her by stealth, and abide in patience the release from a stern
father's coercion, had in fact now become scarcely less imperious, or less
of a domestic tyrant than that father.

But though unconscious of the change itself, its influence acted
upon her. She did not trace the cause, but her gentleness merged into
timidity ; her submission into passiveness ; her modest doubt into self*
mistrust ; her eye,> which had formerly sought his in happy confidence

512 DE8DEM0NA;

acquired an anxious expresBion ; the smile which once sat on her lipOi
subsided into a sweet but pensive seriousness ; witliout losing her natire
serenity, she was rarely gay ; and though she was placidly cheerful, she
never now felt joyous. That hilarity of spirit, that buoyancy of heart,
which the mere sight of a beautiful object, or the hearing of a generous
deed, or the reading of a poetic passage, or the contemplation of Nature's
face, will inspire at a moment's bidding within the breast of youth,
guiltless and innocent, were never again to be Erminia's ; the capability
of such pure and glad emotion had fled, but she knew not ihat it was
her husband's frown, her husband's contracted lips, her husband's
harsher tone when addressing a dependant, issuing a command, or
reproving an error, which had banished her girlish lightness of heart.

She thought rather, — if a thought of the kind ever crossed her fan-
cy,— that her new gravity was owing to her new Juties in the character
of wife and mother ; while she gazed upon her husband, and pressed her
child to her breast, with delighted acknowledgment that she welcomed
the cares inseparable from such duties, as still dearer than her lost
gaiety.

She had given her child, the little Dcsdcmona, as nurse, a woman,
whom she had chosen rather for her good qualities, and in commiseration
for the misfortunes she had endured, than for the reasons which some-
times influence a lady of high rank in the choice of a nurse.

This poor woman, Marianna Marini, had been the wife of an indus-
trious fisherman, whose dwelling was in the neighbourhood of the lowly
one which had formerly sheltered Erminia and her father. Marianna
had, in fact, been one of those who afforded neighbourly succour to the
lady, in the hour of her hasty travail ; and when Marini's vessel foun-
dered at sea, and he himself was drowned, Erminia took the widow and
two children to her own home, appointing Marianna nurse to the young
Pesdemona, and allowing Barbara and Lancctto to run about the house
until such time as one could be promoted to the office of waiting-maid
about her lady's person, and the other should be old enough to fill the
post of page.

It happened, that just about the time Marianna received the eharge

t6e magnifico*8 child. 31S

of her child from Erminia, a nurse had been recommended by some lady
of high rank, the wife of one of Brabantio's friends ; but, hesitating not
an instant between the grandly recommended person and the one from
whom she had once received signal service, and who was now in want of
her support, the lady Erminia dismissed the aristocratic nurse, and re-
tained the fisherman's widow.

This was done of her own accord, and without a thought that her
decision could by possibility displease her husband ; but when Braban-
tio learned that the attendant proposed by the lady of a brother magni-
fico had been rejected in favor of a widow-woman who was known to no
one excepting to his wife in the days of her poverty, he loudly expressed
his disapproval of what had been done.

He did not tell Erminia that the sight of Mariamia was odious tO
him, as recalling a period of their existence which he wished could be
for evedr blotted from his memory ; but he said that he did not choose
risking the affront which might be taken by one of his lady-friends,
should any recommendation of hers be slighted. He therefore desired
that the fine nurse should be immediately sent for, and installed as
head-nurse to his child.

Erminia yielded to her lord's will on the instant. She only rejoiced
that while he had commanded the recall of the one woman, he had issued
no sentence of banishment against the other ; and she determined to
avail herself of this tacit permission that Marianna might remain, feel-
ing secure that her attachment towards herself, would ensure her obey*
ing without a murmur the decree that limited her exile to the nursery,
though it withdrew her from the nominal appointment.

The widow's submission was rewarded. She patiently allowed her
rival to step into all the honors of chief nurse to the magnifico's little
daughter ; and while Madame Veronica bore the babe on all state occa-
sions, paraded it before the guests, and carried it into the saloon when
its father desired to behold it, Marianna was content to perform all the
Bervices of washing, dressing, and tending the little creature as its faith-
ful under-nurse. This arrangement suited all parties. The indolent
madam enjoyed the emolument and ostentation of official charge ; Mari

S14 DBSDEMOMA ) ^

anna secured the personal care of one whom she doubly loved — ^for iti
own sake, and for its mother's ; Brabantio no longer beheld bearing hit
child one whom he held in disgust, from her insignificance of degree;
and from her significance of association ; while Erminia was content to
see her child in the arms of a state-nurse for a few moments in the day,
knowing that it rested the remainder of its time either in her own, or
in those of one who loved it well-nigh as dearly as herself

And tender indeed was the cherishing of this humble under-nurse.
While the little one's mother was led constantly abroad by her desire to
comply with her husband's love of grandeur and display, the part of a
mother was fulfilled by Marianna. The baby throve upon her fostering:
it grew agile and sprightly upon her active dandling, and tossing, and
ceaseless carrying up and down an open corridor, and largo vaulted hall
which lay on one side of the palace, apart from the grand entrance. It
read doting indulgence and affection in the fond looks of Marianna her-
self— those looks which a babe's eyes first seek, as its earliest hint of the
exhaustless treasures, and all-wondrous attractive beauty of love; in-
stinctively hailing at its outset in life, the most precious boon life affords.

It learned the joys of mirth and laughter and childish sport irom the
antics which Barbara and Lancetto, the widow's children, alternately
played for its amusement. They would dance, they would play at bo-
peep, they would jingle keys, chink coin, flash bright colours, play at ball,
or shuttlecock before it, and invent all manner of devices to amuse the
eyes and ears of the baby Desdemona.

Barbara, one of the lightest-hearted, merriest, most frolicksome sprites
that ever flew about in the shape of a young girl, skipped and bounded,
for ever near ; singing blithesome songs, and scraps of dance-tunes, and
odds and ends of mariners' ditties, and gay ballad rhymes. Lancetto,
the boy, was more quiet in the entertainment he was able to afford the
child ; for when himself a mere child, an accident had destroyed his sense
of hearing, and he had ever since become a shy p'jrinking lad, creeping
about almost as silently as though he had been dumb as well as deaf

Yet he spared no pains to entertain the little creature to the utmost
of his ability ; which was not so limited as might have been supposed,

THE MAONIFIOO*8 CHILD. 316

from his defective sense. His quiet methods of engaging the child's at-
tention, and amusing her fancy, had some magic of their own which won
her liking beyond all others ; and while the deaf boy stood beside his
mother's knee, and went through his store of tricks to divert the infant
on her lap, the joyous Growings, and elastic springings of the young baby
sufficiently testified baby's delight.

While the abrupt play and ringing voice of Barbara would sometimes
make the child (who was sensitive and impressible to a remarkable de«
gree) start, or blink, or laugh almost convulsively, with the sudden ap-
peal ; the gentle contrivances of the deaf boy for her amusement would
never fail to charm her into pleased attention.

It was somewhat singular to observe, how intensely the delight of the
child delighted the boy ; it almost served to render him his lc4t sense,
and to endue with a strange acuteness what had been so blunted.

For when the babe crowed, his keen watching of the sparkling eyes,
the smiling lip, the strained hands and springing form, conveyed so true
an impression to him of her joy, that with it came, as it were, some faint
echo of that sound — all slight, gentle, and minute as it was. But there
were one or two sounds, besides this, that did reach Lancetto's hearing.
His mother's voice, his sister's singing, certainly possessed significance
for him. He unquestionably knew when the one spoke to him, or when
the other carolled her gay airs. He would answer Marianna when
she addressed him ; and check himself in speaking, if Barbara began
to sing. It might be that some expression of her face, some look, some
gesture betrayed to him by association what was going on ; but it seemed
also as if there were some few sounds, clear, distinct, low-toned, and
low-pitched in key, which could reach the sense that was irresponsive of
all others.

As the little Pesdemona grew older, when jingled keys and other
baby tricks lost their fascination, Lancetto would persuade his mother
to let him take her and her young charge abroad upon the waters of the
lagunes, in a gondola ; which he, as a mariner's son, had early learned
to manage with skill.

There was a private landing, on a by-canal that ran at the back of

316 desdemona;

the palace, leading to the water from the corridor already mentioned,
here the under-nurse and her charge could embark, avoiding the grand
entrance with the state gondolas and liveried gondoliers, in attendance
there ; and thus, under sanction of the lady Erminia's permission, the
young Desdemona enjoyed many a pleasant excursion upon the placid
waters, amid the cool breezes of evening, accompanied by the faithful
Marianna, sung to bj Barbara, and rowed — if rowing, the propelling of
a gondola may be called — by Lancetto.

But one unfortunate evening, these unpretending progresses were
put a stop to, by Brabantio's happening to meet the simple craft, thus
freighted ; he himself being in company with a gay party of si/oiiors
and ladies of his own rank. Mortified to find his only daughter thus
unostentatiously attended, he signified his high displeasure that such
should be the case ; and when he found that this formed her usual
equipage, and that she was in the habit of taking her airings with no
lordlier style, he immediately appointed what he deemed a retinue better
befitting her rank, desiring that in future she should occupy a gondola
emblazoned with the arms of their noble house, and guided by six gon-
doliers in rich liveries, whenever it was thought fit for her to go forth
and take the air.

As usual, this mandate of Siguier Braban tie's was obeyed to the
letter ; but to the letter only. In the spirit, it was soon broken through.
Like all households where will is the mere dictator. — where despotism
reigns, — where orders, rational or irrational in their results, are issued,
without appeal from their fiat, — obedience was professed, while subter-
fuges neutralized its effect ; it was ostensibly observed, secretly contra-
vened ; outwardly acted, quietly obstructed in the working.

The lady Erminia, long accustomed to comply implicitly with her
husband's commands, had learned, as tacitly, to evade their consequences,
where they happened, which they frequently did, to prove inconvenient,
and when she could do so without open opposition. Instead of the
honest remonstrance, the modest yet plain representation, — ^which surely
beseem a wife, when reasoning a point with a husband, whose indulgence
and justice equal his right of rule, and who will grant patient hearing

JUi

THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 317

to one whose interest in the ultimate good established should be do less
than his own, — there was in the lady Erminia's conduct a subserviencyj
a temporizing, which will too often take the place of candour in a timid
wom|in. When such a woman is treated authoritatively, without the
rational confidence which should give weight to authority, and which is
needed* by a timid nature to encourage it in a return of confidence, and
in the sincerity it would fain preserve, she is apt to become a moral
coward, an equivocator — ^well, if not a deceiver.

In the present instance, Erminia acted as her whole course of mar-
ried life had taught her to act. Instead of representing to her husband
that their little daughter had become much attached to her nurse ; that she
liked being with none so well as with her children, who had ijeen accus-
tomed play-mates from babyhood ; that if she were to take excursions
upon the water, in company only with Madame Veronica, the head-
nurse, — whom the combined effects of rosa-solis, good living, and state
nursing had rendered plethoric and dull, — and surrounded only by the
strange faces of the six appointed gondoliers, it was probable that the
good effects which might be hoped from the air and exercise, would, if
thus administered, be counteracted, and the young Dcsdemona's health
suffer in consequence ; instead of telling Siguier Brabant io all this, she
resolved, — as many a prudent wife would have done, trained in the same
school with the lady Erminia, — to let the child take an occasional trip
in the state-gondola, attended by her state-nurse, and rowed by the state
gondoliers, of an evening ; while she still permitted her to go out with
Marianna, Barbara, and Lancetto in their old quiet way — ^but of a
mornings quite early, at an hour when the breezes played as healthfully,
as freshly, as coolly, before the sun had gained his strength, as at the
time he was sinking to rest — and moreover, at an hour, when there was
not the slightest chance of Desdemona's encountering her father's
gondola on the lagunes.

As the child grew in years, more of her time was spent with her
mother, and less with her nurse. Siguier Brabantio's demands on his
wife's company to the various festivities and public entertainments which
he attended, grew fewer and fewer: he was content to see her keep

318 desdemona;

house more, now, than during the first years of their marriage ; and the
lady Erminia was equally content with the power thus to devote more
leisure to her child. She addressed herself in earnest to the task of
cultivating her little daughter's heart and mind, inculcating wis^ and
loving precepts, and teaching her all gentleness, goodness, excellence, of
which her own nature yielded abundant store.

Erminia's education had been given to her in the days of her father's
prosperity ; and had therefore been as ample as were her natural gifts
and capacity, for profiting by the liberal cultivation bestowed. She was
a musician of surpassing skill ; she was an expert needlewoman — ^her
embroideries being as varied in kind and design, as they were beautiful
in execution ; and she took delight in imparting her knowledge of these
things to her child, that she might in time render her as much an adept
as herself

But in educating her child, there was one thing, which it had been
well, could the lady have instilled : it was the one thing needful in her
own nature, as it was that qualification in her daughter which was alone
wanting to make her as perfect a being as ever existed. Could the
lady Erminia have taught her the honesty as well as the modesty of
innocence, — the unflinching candour which ought to belong to goodness
and greatness, — have inspired the courage of transparent truth, she
would have invested her daughter with a panoply that would have proved
her best protection against the diabolical malignity by which she was
one day to be assailed, and borne her soathless through the treachery
which wrought her fate.

The lady Erminia, however, was not likely to communicate to her child,
that of which she herself was not only unpossessed, but unconsciously
devoid. She had not the remotest notion that her husband's violent
temper had destroyed in hers that firmness and fearlessness which should
accompany rectitude ; she knew not that his imperious disposition had
banished from hers openness of speech or action ; that she no longer
had unhesitating sincerity in words, or unconstrained frankness in deeds ;
and that, in fact, although she had preserved her integrity of purpose^
yet that she had forfeited her straightforwardness, her uprightneM, her
honesty of soul.

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD. 319

Tlie same exquisite gentleness formed the characteristic of the daugh-
ter as of the mother ; and that which might have been stimulated and
strengthened into consummate beauty of character, was, by example
and by circumstance, suffered to degenerate into the single point of weak-
ness which marred its perfection.

Accustomed to see her mother yield in silence even to things in which
she did not acquiesce ; to see her avoid doing what she tacitly seemed to
agree to ; to see her evade what she would not object to, and, although
she never blamed or opposed in speech, yet quietly condemned and set
aside by act — or rather by non-performance ; apparently consenting and
approving, but in fact frustrating and censuring by a system of silent pas-
siveness ; the little girl insensibly acquired just such a system of conduct.
It suited with her native disposition, — still, gracious, and serene ; full
of quiet sweetness, and unruffled calm. It secured her from the chance
of opposition of contest in will ; it preserved her from the risk of excit-
ing a father's displeasure, or of disputing his pleasure ; for involuntarily
it was felt that his displeasure could be excited, were his pleasure dis-
puted ; and although neither mother nor daughter ever breathed even to
themselves — far less to each other — a hint that they held him in awe ;
yet by mutual though unexpressed consent, they let nothing reach his
knowledge that could by possibility prove distasteful to him. They
hardly knew it — but so it was ; they feared him more than they loved
him ; they dreaded his disapprobation, more than they hoped to win his
approval. Over-strained respect engendered reserve. Had he been
contented with a little less submission, he might have commanded more
reverence ; had he exacted less obedience, he might have obtained dearer
regard ; with somewhat less implicit observance, he might have had fonder
affection. As it was, they honored him as a husband, a father ; but to
neither of them was he a friend. They were sincerely attached to him ;
they had no duty dearer, than to do him homage ; no wish nearer their
hearts, than to do him pleasure ; but they never dreamed of asking him
to share theirs — they never expected him to derive joy from their joys,
— they knew that no such sympathy, such equality, such mutuality of
feeling existed between him and them ; and aocordingly, their regard for

320 DESDEMONA ;

him asflumcd the quality that was thus engendered. Brablntio remained
paramount in the affections of his wife and daughter, but he did not
possess their confidence. None of that loving trust, that spontaneouB
cordiality, — which should pour itself freely into the bosom of a woman's
dearest male friend, — subsisted between them ; but not one of the three
was conscious of its non-existence. They each thought that love — ^per-
fect love, dwelt amidst them ; but love, to be perfect love, must be free,
unreserved, unfearing, equal.

One instance of the effect produced on the lady Erminia by her lord's
character, has been already cited in the circumstance of her withdrawing
from his sight the nurse obnoxious to him, while she quietly retained her
in a subordinate situation about the household ; another, in the fact of
her adlicring to the form of his command respecting her daughter's even-
ing airings in the gondola, while she permitted the infringement of the
command itself, by conniving at morning excursions that were not likely
to come to his knowledge. In like manner, she indulged her love of un-
ostentatious deeds, her desire to do good privately, by many a secret
charity, and kindly visit among the poor ; towards whom her own tem-
porary adversity had taught her commiseration and interest. But with
instinctive perception, she discerned that this wish of hers would meet
with no response from her husband : she felt that his tastes had no
affinity with good deeds done in secret, with charity bestowed privately
and unostentatiously ; and moreover, she felt that he had no liking or
interest for the poor ; nay, that he shrank, and held himself aloof, from
any contact or association with those beneath him in station.

Accordingly, Erminia contented herself with pursuing her own quiet
way, carrying comfort and relief to many a destitute family, and suffer-
ing fellow-creature ; while she took care so to time her charitable visits,
as that they should neither interfere with the hours which Brabantio
passed in her society, nor in any way come to his knowledge. She avail-
ed herself of Lancetto's aid in conveying her to and from those obscure
quarters of the city, whither her benevolent visits chiefly led her ; while
the unused landing from the corridor at the back of the palace, aflbrded
her the means of unobserved egress and regress at any hour she found
most convenient for h^r purpose.

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD. 32 1

On these pious errands she was frequently accompanied by her young
daughter, whom she thus trained in kindly sympathy and compassion,
initiating her in the sweet comforts that are to be drawn from bestow-
ing comfort on others.

In mildness, in patience, in pity, and tender ministry to the wants
and sufferings of her less fortunate human brethren, this young creature
was nurtured ; and the mother, in teaching her child thus to know vir.
tue, and to taste its own ineffable rewards, taught her also to know and
reverence herself In learning to emulate the virtues of her mother, the
young Desdemona learned that mother's true worth and excellence — and
she loved her little short of idolatry.

The lady Erminia and her child now spent no hour apart. Ii is pro-
bable that Braban tie's love of parade and retinue might still have main*
tained Madame Veronica in her office of head-nurse about his daughter's
person, even after Desdemona's age placed her beyond the want of any
such attendant, had not plethora put a period to that stately dame's ser-
vices and life, while a sudden fever removed the faithful Marianna from
her post, about the same time. But no need had the little girl now of
either state-nurse, or under-nurse ; her fond mother supplied the place
of all othet ministrants, in the ceaseless dedication of her thoughts to
the one object of all her care, all her joy. She was happy in being thus
able to monopolize her daughter, while she devoted the whole of her own
time to her welfare ; in having her ever with her ; in letting her receive
from her own hand alone, those services which she would have grudged
being obliged to share with menials in offering to the child she so loved.

The little Desdemona repaid this devotion with her whole heart.
She never voluntarily quitted her mother's side; and hour by hour
would she sit close to her, getting her to tell the long stories she loved
so to hear of those old bygone times, that had a sad and quiet beauty of
their own ; when her gentle mother had been a girl herself, and had lived
in retirement and even penury, with her old blind father.

Her child loved to hear of the sightless eyes, that still turned affec-
tionately though vainly towards the voice of her, whose best reward for a
life of unaccustomed toil, was to look upon those eyes, which though they

322 DESDEMONA ;

could yield no look in return, yet in their yaoanoy, and in the slightest
flitter of their lids, were dearer than all beside. The child loved to
hear of the young nobleman, so handsome, so refined, that came to her
mother's solitude, gilding it with a strange new light ; investing it with a
mysterious charm it had never known ; of the absorbing feeling which took
possession of her, teaching her that all she had hitherto known of affec-
tlon and attachment and devotion towards those she loved, was faint in
comparison with what she now felt for him ; of the romance of their secret
marriage ; of the young wife's pride and enthusiastic faith in the noble
qualities and exalted worth of him who had thus made her one with him-
self The child loved to hear, too, of that gallant boy, the young bro-
ther, who, in the days of their prosperity, besought his father's leave to
(|uit their luxurious home for the sea, on which he hoped to gain as glo-
rious laurels as his sire had won before him. She listened breathlessly,
eagerly, to the tale of the father and daughter's protracted suspense dur-
ing that season when hope strove against misgiving, hearing no news of
the absent Gratiano ; and to the account of the terrible moment when
they were compelled to believe the truth of the intelligence that reached
them of his having perished. She never wearied of hearing about that
fateful day, when the young seaman suddenly reappeared before his sis-
ter's wondering eyes — when, in the midst of their agitated meeting, they
had been surprised by the abrupt entrance and as abrupt vanishing of
the young husband — when the unexpected knowledge of his son's being
still alive had caused the old man's death — when she herself had been
born, in the midst of that mingled joy and sorrow — all the events of
that strange day, in short, she took ceaseless delight in hearing. And
then, she and her mother would pause, in wonder, and regret, that the
young seaman should so soon again have quitted the sister who took bo
true a joy in his return ; and then Desdemona would utter longing wishes
that she could behold and know the gallant sailor-uncle, whom she loved
for the sake of that mother over whom she had hung in the hour of her
own birth.

But years passed on, and still they saw or heard nothing of Gratiano.

On the death of Marianna Marini, her daughter had been promoted

THE MAONIFICO*8 CHILD. 328

to the long-promised post of handmaiden to the lady Erminia. Like
many vivacious people, Barbara felt sorrow keenly. The shock of her
mother's sadden death had deprived her of rest, and appetite. Her
strength and spirits forsook her ; she moped, grew thin and pale, and
seemed wasting away visibly. The lady Erminia, with her usual gen-
tleness and consideration, thought nothing so likely to revive the droop-
ing girl as placing her about her own person, where she could the more
readily receive sympathy, with kind and affectionate words that might
as nearly as possible replace the mother's fondness she had lost That
mixture of protection and caressing familiarity which subsists between
an Italian mistress and maid, was precisely the treatment best calculated
to soothe and restore Barbara from her present mood. The duration
of her grief, therefore, was not so long as its first vehemence seemed to
forebode ; she gradually recovered her spirits, cheered by the gentle kind-
ness of the lady Erminia and her daughter. In the passionate gratitude
and attachment she felt towards them, subsided the bitterness of her
sorrow ; and by degrees, her cheek resumed its color and roundness,
her step its alertness, her spirits their natural gaiety ; once more her
song was heard blithe and ringing as she tripped about the house, sweet
and subdued in her lady's presence, or cheerily carolling as her lay kepi
time to her fingers in her silk spinning.

Not so with her brother Laucetto. The lad had demonstrated little
or no violence of emotion at the time of his mother's death ; but ever
since then^ an additional shade of sadness had clouded his face and hung
its weight upon his limbs. Ever quiet, and shy, and shrinking from ob-
servation, the increase of inertness was less perceptible in him than it
might have been in one more naturally active ; but still to a watchful eye,
he would have given evidence of change — of the change worked by un-
complaining regret, that gnaws inwardly, and shows only in languor, de-
pression, and^ apathy. The deaf boy crept about silently ; disregarded
by others, and disregarding them ; but then he had never been remark-
ably talkative or sociably inclined, so that his comrades scarcely per-
ceived that he was more silent, or sought their society less than ever.
They merely left him to himself, and gradually came to take no more

324 DESDEMONA :

notice of him than if he had been hewn out of marble ; — one of the sculp'
tured figures that ornamented the great hall of the palace.

Perhaps his sister might have learned to note that Lancetto wae
more shy, more retiring, more quiet, and more sadly silent than he had
ever been before ; but it happened about this time that her head and
heart were filled with quite another matter.

She had fallen in love. There was a certain handsome young gondo*
lier. named Paolo, who had found out that Barbara, the lady Erminia's
handmaiden, had not only the sweetest voice, but, to his thinking, the
neatest figure, the trimmest ankle, the most sparkling eye, to be found
in all Venice, where such pretty gifts abound ; and Paolo had not only
made up his mind in awarding to Barbara this preeminence, but he had
found means to acquaint her with his opinion, to inform her of the effect
this discovery had upon his heart, and to entreat that she would try and
discover some personable points in him which she might deem worthy
of matching with her own matchless perfections. Some such sentiment—
slightly incongruous as it might be in its expression — he contrived to
put into easy singing verse — Italian in its ease, its singing chime, and
its slender regard to sense, so that it was but full enough of love —
amore and cuore — bellezza, dolcezza — doloroso, amoroso — vezzosa, gra-
ziosa— &c. &c. ; and then he sang them and thrummed them beneath a
certain window that he trusted might be hers. By good fortune the
window not only proved to be Barbara's, but the voice, the guitar, the
sense — or nonsense — of the rhyme, the good looks of the singer, and the
pretty flattery of his song, altogether appealed so irresistibly to the young
girl's fancy, that she became as much enamoured as himself; and it was
an understood thing between them that as soon as Barbara should haye
her mistress's sanction to her marriage, they would be united. Mean-
time, however, the handmaiden was too happy in her pleasant servioej
too much attached to her lady, to be in any great hurry to leave her ;
she accordingly took no pains to obtain that sanction ; but contentedly
enjoyed her present life, divided between the pleasures of 'waiting on her
beloved mistress, and the pleasures of courting, with her handsome lover.

Pleased to see her favorite restored to her native gaiety, the lady

THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 325

Brminia took kindly interest in the affection that subsisted between the
young couple, and would sometimes rally her attendant upon having won
the liking of the best-looking youth in all Venice, and smile at the
dimpling and blushing with which Barbara acknowledged that she thought
80 too, even while she coyly pretended to care little for good looks, not
she ; but that she pitied him for being so desperately in love with her-
self; for she understood that while half the girls in Venice — forward
creatures ! — were plaguing him with their admiration, and running after
him, yet that he couldn't forsooth fancy any body but his own little
Barbara.

" But I tell him, my lady, that he must wait, if he must needs have
her, and nobody less ; for she can't leave her lady. yet awhile, to please
him, nor twenty such young fellows — ^good-looking as he may be — or as
he may think himself — or as those bold creatures teach him to think
himself ! "

" Thou wilt allow they've good taste, at any rate ;" said the lady
Erminia archly ; '' Paolo is as likely and handsome a man as we shall
see in a summer's day 1 They certainly have good eyes in their heads ;
eh, Barbara?'

" Good eyes, my lady ? Not a bit of it ! Not one of 'em ! Be-
sides, if they'd ever such good eyes of their own, what right have they
to be letting them follow his, and judge his ? What are his eyes to them,
I should like to know. I wish they'd let his eyes alone !"

^^ I don't doubt it Barbara ;" said her lady ; '' but as long as his eyes
are as handsome as they are, how can'st wonder that others will find it
out, beside thyself?"

" I, my lady ? I never said I found them handsome, did I?"

" But thou think'st so ; eh, Barbara?"

*• They're well enough ; they're large, and dark, and full of — at least,
I believe so ; I hardly ever looked at them long enough to know much
about them."

^^ But perhaps, others have had more courage, and looked at them a
little longer, and taken more interest in finding out that they're large,
and dark, and full of— -eh, Barbara ? " said her mistress ; amusing herself

826 DESDEMONA ]

with her handmaiden's pretty affectation ; '* and if so, these others maj
be less able to withstand the attractions and influence of Paolo's hand-
some eyes than the hard-hearted little Barbara."

" I'm not hard-hearted, my lady."

Her lady smiled. '^ No, in good sooth, Barbara, I do not think thou
art."

" No, indeed, my lady ; I only wish, as I said before, that they'd let
Paolo's eyes alone "

" And not ^make eyes' at him, as we say ; nor feel inclined to scratch
thine out, eh, Barbara; because he happens to fancy no eyes so well?"

*' Just so, my lady ; I wish they'd only leave both our pair of eyes
alone — they're quite enough for each other."

" I've no doubt of it, Barbara ;" naid her mistress, with her quiet
smile. " And now go see whether my lord be about to attend the senate,
and my daughter be ready to come from his room hither. If so, set the
embroidery frame ; and then we shall not need thee for an hour or two.
which thou may'st idle away, an thou wilt, in looking from the windows
of the corridor, that if a certain pair of handsome eyes should be look-
ing up in hope of a glance from thine, neither his nor thine may be
disappointed."

Barbara tripped away, blushing, and biting her lip to hide a smile,
and humming an air with a little mocking toss of her head, as if truly
she cared no jot for the disappointment on either side ; nay, that it could
be none to her.

There was a good deal of truth in what had been playfully said.
touching the extended influence of the handsome gondolier's eyes. They
had caused many a heartache among the damsels of his acquaintance.
He was by no means a flirt ; had taken no undue advantage of the per-
sonal merits he might boast ; but the hearts of fair Italians are apt to
be susceptible, and cannot readily resist the fascinations of a pair of
handsome dark eyes, even if they use no other eloquence than thjir ovni
beauty of form and color. Paolo's had never expressed love, until they
encountered pretty Barbara ; therefore they were not to blame for the
many conquests they had involuntarily achieved ; and though be

THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 327

not entirely unconsoious of the several likings he had inspired, yet he
had never sought one, until his whole heart became absorbed in winning
Barbara's.

It was therefore hard upon him, that the liking of one among these
damsels, was so pertinacious, that no cold averted looks, no neglect, no
pointed indifference on his part, could suffice to discourage her from per-
secuting him with evidence of the attachment she felt. This girl, Nina,
had all along made no secret of her hope, that by the constancy and
fervour of her own passion, she should in time win him ; and it was
therefore with dismay that she learned he was not only still indifferent
to herself, but that he had fallen in love elsewhere. She watched him
now, more closely than ever, and it was not long before she made the
discovery she sought yet dreaded. She learned who had succeeded where
she had failed ; she found out who had entire possession of that heart,
which she had been unable so much as to touch ; and with the fury of
despair, she vowed to exchange her love for hate.

She now dogged his steps with no less pertinacity than before — though
with quite a different motive. Formerly she had followed him, seeking
to attract his notice, to win his regard ; now she lurked unseen, furtive,
watchful for some opportunity of effecting her vengeful purpose. But she
thought herself more determined than she was ; she fancied wrath had
taken firmer place within her, and inspired a stronger and more fatal in-
tent than it really had. She believed that she had fully resolved rather
to kill him than to see him wedded to another ; that rage had destroyed all
tenderness towards him ; but she still hesitated to strike the blow which
was to end his life and her torture. At length she determined on mak-
ing one more appeal to him, ere she gave up all hope, and sealed his fate
and her own. It was a stormy interview, although it took place beneath
the cloudless azure of a Venetian sky, and on the peaceful bosom of the
Lagunes.

Nina had perceived Paolo's vessel taking its way across the broad
waters, towards the Lido ; she had flung herself impetuously into her
father's boat, and, herself a gondolier's daughter, well accustomed t«
manage the oar, followed in his track.

S28 DESDEMONA j

The yonng man seeing himself pursued by a gondola propelled by a
woman, had paused, wondering and curious, that she might come up with
him, and discover who she was, and what she wanted : but when he saw
it was Nina ; and her wild words, furious yet imploring, reproachful, bit-
ter, menacing, beseeching, passionate and impassioned, all by turns, told
her errand, and the lingering hope with which she had sought him, he
regretted having permitted her to overtake him.

Mildly, and softly, he answered at first ; unwilling to speak words
few men like to utter to women : but when he found she misinterpreted
his gentleness and hesitation, he frankly and firmly told her how impos-
sible it was for him ever to return the passion she avowed. She retorted,
by upraiding him with being warm to another while he was so cold to
her ; with being capable of love for one who never would — ^who never
could — love him with such a Wve as she herself bore him : she sprang
into his boat, flung herself at his feet, embraced his knees, and in an agony
of entreaty besought him not to kill her by spurning her affection ; then
stung by his silence, she started up. and drawing a knife from the folds
of her dress, attempted to plunge it into his bosom ; but he, though taken
by surprise, succeeded in mastering the weapon, wrenching it from her,
and casting it into the water.

'* Weak woman's hand !" she exclaimed, as she clenched it in the
scorn and wrath of defeat ; ^^ weaker still the woman's heart, that quailed
and seconded its impotence, instead of aiding it to strike ! But a time
will come, when heart and hand shall avenge more surely, — nerved by
your own to-day's cruelty, Paolo. Merciless to me, you have taught me
to show no mercy ; and be sure I will have none !"

She cast herself into the other boat, and floated speedily away ;
whilst Paolo, agitated and unmanned by this personal struggle with an
enraged woman, let his vessel glide on towards the Lido, feeling the
solitary spot to be in peculiar unison with his mood. He was glad to
be alone, that he might recover from his emotion before the time came
for his repairing to meet Barbara. He reached the dreary stretch of
sand ; hastily moored his boat ; and threw himself at full length npoB
the ground.

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD. « 321i

Qe was a good-natured, well-disposed youth, and it had given him
fiincere pain to behold a girl's face distorted with suoh violence of feel
ing ; to see her frame writhe and fling itself prostrate before him ; to
witness such transports of mingled anguish and fury — of which he him-
Relf was the involuntary cause ; and he could not readily throw off th(
painful impression the scene had left. He thought much less of the
attempt she had made upon his life, than he did of her misery, the as-
pect of which haunted and distressed him. The sun rose high in the
heavens, and poured its meridian blaze full upon his unsheltered head,
as he still lay there, unc6nscious of the lapse of time. At length, when
he arose, he found himself faint and giddy. Oppressed with his own
sensations, and with the noontide heat, he staggered towards his boat,
and returned to Venice ; thinking that an hour's talk with his Barbara
in the shady corridor at the back of the palace, would do more to restore
him to his former self, than a whole day of troubled cogitation.

" I'll think no more of the girl ;" said he to himself; "after all, is
it my fault if she's wilful, and chooses to make herself unhappy? Let
me think of sweet Barbara, and her pleasant looks, and pretty ways ;
such whimsies and caprices, and playful wilfulnesses as hers, are indeed
just what should belong to a woman."

Meantime, Nina had returned to Venice, with rage and disappoint-
ment fiercer than ever within her. She hurried home ; but unable to
breathe beneath a roof, had soon restlessly wandered forth again. She
had gone, at one time for a few minutes into a place of public resort,
where some of her companions and neighbours were busied about their
ordinary occupations ; she stood idly by, watching them abstractedly ;
but one of them chancing to speak to her, she turned away, and stood
apart, leaning against the balustrade of a bridge that crossed the canal
near there. Here she remained, watching the current as it swept slug-
gishly through the arches, beneath the parapet over which she hung,
looking wistfully but dreamingly into the water.

After a time, she suddenly roused herself; pushed back the hair
from her temples ; glared round with a flushed cheek and haggard eye ;
and then she retraced her steps at a swift pace to her home. She went

330 ' DESDEMONA ;

Btraight in ; walked towards a particular spot ; seized up someihing
which she securely hid ; and then hurried out again, as abruptly as 8h€
had entered.

" Why delay it ?" she muttered ; " it must and shall be done ; why
then delay ? Can I ever have better force than now, while the reoolleo-
tion of his scorn burns fresh within me ? This is the very hour, I know,
when he visits his minion. There, I shall make sure of him."

She glided swiftly along ; making her way by some of the narrow
alleys and passages that thread an obscure footway through Venice,
until she reached the landing leading up into the corridor, at the back
of Brabantio's palace. She made sure that the long gallery was empty;
she sped along it, and concealed herself among the folds of a tapestry
curtain, which was occasionally drawn across a doorway leading into the
vaulted hall, but which now hung in dark heavy drapery on one Bideu
Here she paused ; her heart beating high ; her breath held, but coming
short and quick ; her pulse throbbing ; her feet contracted ; her handR
clenched.

Presently there was a light step ; it came through the hall, and
tripped along the corridor, — the person whose step it was, passing so
close to Nina as to brush the folds of tapestry that enveloped her.
There were voices ; a hurried meeting ; a light word or two. exchanged
for an anxious enquiry ; and then Nina plainly heard the words: —

" No time for mocking jest, indeed ! How pale you are, Paolo I
And how hot and feverish your hands ! Your lips are parched — yon
are ill !"

'' I have been lounging too long in the heat, I believe, with my head
uncovered ; but never fear, Barbara ; not quite a sun stroke ! I'm only
a little giddy — it will pass. Put your cool hand to my forehead — that
will cure me in a trice.**

" Stay, I will fetch you a draught of iced water ; that will tefreili
you. I won't be gone many minutes."

The light quick footsteps came back; the figure repassed through
the curtained doorway ; and again, all but touched the hidden Nina.

" Now is the very moment ! Now, Nina, nerve thy heart and hand
for one sure blow !"

THE MAONIFIC0 8 CHILD. 33 «

For one instant, she looked forth. He was standing alone, partly
turned from her, beside one of the long range of windows which gaye
light to the gallery on one side, overlooking the canal. He leaned
against the embrasure, and had one hand raised to his head ; his hair
was put back from his face, and showed it wan and suffering.

Not allowing herself to note his look, she only perceived he was
alone, and off his guard. Darting from her concealment, she made
towards him ; but whether some unconscious check to her speed had
reached her in the glimpse she caught of his white face, or whether the
space she had to traverse, afforded him some instant warning of her ap-
proach, he had just time to turn, ere she attacked him. He caught at
her upraised arm, and attempted to seize the knife from her : but she
was desperate, and clutched it tight, and struck madly at his face with
it. There was a stern wrestle — as if between man and man — for a
second or so. He, disabled by his illness, and yet more by his disincli-
nation to cope with a woman : she, resolved, and deadly in her purpose,
there was more of equality in the encounter than might have been sup-
posed. Twice he had tried to grasp her wrist, and both times she had
twisted it from him, and thrust again at his throat — his face ; until
goaded by such pertinacious assault, he put forth his strength, and
forced her to give back.

She stumbled against the open window — lost her balance — fell out}
dropping the knife at his feet.

Horror-stricken he gazed out after her. He saw the head strike
against the side of the gondola; and then, her body plunge into the
water. Once again he beheld the face, as she rose to the surface. It
was turned towards him with a look— one look — such a look ! — ^it turned
him to stone.

He remained there, hanging out of the window, unable to stir ; his
eyes staring from their sockets, and fixed upon the waters where they
had closed upon the upturned face — his mouth agape and rigid — his
arms nerveless — his body incapable of moving — powerless — ^helpless.

He was found thus by Barbara, when she returned with a draught
of water.

332 DESDEMONA ;

On her approaobiDg him, he did not turn towards her ; he neithex
spoke, nor moved. In great alarm she addressed him. and besought hiiq
to answer — to look at her. At the sound of her voice, he stared round
vacantly, and then fixed his eyes with a mournful gaze upon hers. In
piteous accents she implored him to speak — to tell her how it was with
him ; and then she pressed him to drink of the cool draught she had
brought, to revive him.

He waved the glass from him ; and with his eyes still mournfully
fixed upon hers, he said : — ^^ And so you would have me swallow that,
would you, Nina ? You cannot stab me — ^you would offer me poison,
would you ?"

He laughed a low unnatural laugh, that thrilled Barbara to hear.

^^ Dear Paolo !" she said soothingly ; and would have laid her hand
upon his arm ; but the instant he felt her touch, he pushed her back
roughly, and said, with sparkling eyes, '* I would fain not hurt you —
you're a woman ; but do not tempt me^-do not urge me too far."

" Dear, dear Paolo," again she said, weeping ; " do you not know
me ? Will you cast off your own Barbara ?"

" I know you, Nina ; I know you ! You cannot beguile me. I
cannot love you — I tell you plainly — I can love none but Barbara !"

" I am Barbara — ^your own poor little Barbara. 0 Paolo I Do you
not indeed know that it is I ?"

She wrung her hands ; and onoe more would have approached him to
throw her arms about him, that she might strive to soothe him with
those caresses, one of which he had so often vainly entreated, in some
of their happy courting times, when she would play the sportive tyrant.

But again, the moment she attempted to touch him, he flung her
from him ; and this time with such violence, that she reeled, and could
not help screaming aloud, with the fright and pain of receiving so heavy
a blow from that hand.

" I warn you — keep back, Nina ! Or I cannot answer for myself !"
he exclaimed.

Just then, her brother Lancetto entered the corridor. He had of
course heard not! ing of Barbara's cry, but a glance at her disturbed

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD. 338

eoontenanoe, and that of Paolo, told him that something fearful was the
matter between them.

His sister hastily communicated to him, by means of the signs which
were in use between them, that Paolo had been seized with a sudden
illness, which seemed to bereave him of his senses ; that he did not
know her ; that he took her for some one else.

Lancetto went towards the unhappy young man, and spoke some
gentle words to him : Paolo seemed somewhat calmer at the lad's voice ;
but when Lancetto attempted to lead him towards Barbara, he drew
back, shuddered, and pointing at her, said in a hissing whisper: — '^ You
don't know what she has done — she would have used her knife upon me ;
but it lies yonder ; best pick it up, lest she recover it, and strike at me
again."

Lancetto heard not the words, but he saw his sister's eye, directed
by the stealthy movement of Paolo's finger, glance towards a corner of
the window, in which lay the weapon that had dropped from Nina*s
clutch, when she fell.

" She sees it I She will use it again I Ton know not how she per-
sists, to compass her deadly will !" And Paolo darted to the spot, that
he might be first to seize the knife.

Barbara, dreading that in his wild excitement he might turn the
weapon upon himself, was about to spring forward to arrest his hand ;
but perceiving that her least movement only seemed to excite him still
farther, she checked herself, and stood with clasped hands, and stream-
ing eyes, watching him, and striving to keep herself as motionless a»
might be. Lancetto, seeing Paolo thus eyeing his sister with distrustful
and threatening looks, again approached him, entreating him to be calm^
and to say what had angered him against her.

Paolo quietly gave the knife into Lanoetto's hand, still, however,
maintaining an eye upon Barbara, saying : — ^^ Keep it securely ; let her
not know where you hide it — and then we shall be safe from her. Come
away ; let's leave her ; if she follow us — as she may — for she's not
easily repulsed, — ^we'U use her own knife upon her. She shall not coma
between Barbara and me— I've told her so, plainly ; let her not tempt
me again."

884 DESDEMONA )

Scowling upon the miserable girl, he drew her brother away ; wkoj
yielding to his movement, contrived to whisper to Barbara that he
would but lead Paolo home, and then return to comfort her.

But comfort there was never more to be for Barbara.

Nothing could divest the unfortunate Paolo of the impression he had
first conceived after the shock his brain had undergone from that fatal
accident, occurring as it did so immediately upon long exposure to the
noonday sun. Nothing could do away with his conviction that Barbara
was Nina ; and he shunned her with no less abhorrence now, than he
had formerly sought her with fondness.

The very love he felt, showed itself in hate ; for he fled Barbara,
thinking her to be Nina, for the sake of herself

This delusion lasted. In all else he was sufficiently sane. He went
about his ordinary occupations, little changed ; except that he was sub-
ject to restless, excited moods, and a propensity to wander away alone,
muttering to himself, and scowling gloomily. These moods always
occurred after any attempts on the part of Barbara to see him, or to
revive a recollection of their former happy attachment. He always
shuddered at her sight ; the sound of her voice — that voice which had
always possessed such charm for him — would irritate and bewilder him ;
the slightest approach of her hand or person, would be sure to madden
him outright ; he would then push her from him, and break away wildly,
threatening, frowning, and wrathful.

This distempered fancy and strange aversion of her lover broke poor
Barbara's heart. She bore it patiently, bravely, at first, trusting that
he might yet recover. She would not yield all hope — ^until all hope was
snatched from her. Her brother Lancetto. from the very first day of
Paolo's distraction, had devoted himself to his friend ; he took up
his abode with him ; kept near him through the day ; watohed him
through the night ; and was indeed a brother to his sister's unhappy
lover. But Barbara, unable to relinquish all belief that her presence,
which had once been the source of such joy, might still be the happy
means of restoring him, upon one occasion stole to see them, as was her
frequent wont. She found Paolo in a somewhat softened mood ; hev

THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 335

brother whispered that he had been more rational for some days past :
she crept into a distant seat, and watohed him through her tears, as
Lancetto spoke to him in his quiet voice, and told him that Barbara was
come to see him.

He started, looked round, and smiled ; then uttered that unnatural
laugh which was so sorrowful to hear — so unlike his once joyous, open,
hearty hilarity.

She ventured to sing, in a soft undertone, some little simple air he
had formerly loved.

The familiar strain seemed to lull and assuage his agitation ; for he
remained quite still, gazing vacantly into the corner of the room where
she sat, — and listened. The evening was advanced, and he could dis-
tinguish little save the outline of her figure in the dark. She then,
tremblingly, — but trying to master her emotion, — commanded her voice
sufficiently to sing his favorite song ; one which he himself had taught
her, and which expressed the love he would have had her feel and avow.
Often, in the times of her playful despotism, she had coyly refused to
sing him this trifle, pretending it confessed too much ; now she volun-
teered it in the depth of a timidity, earnest, anxious, far other than the
once pretended bashfulness; she then affected fear in the height of
happy confidence ; she now assumed courage in the midst of her heart's
dread.

The sound of this air — the well-known, words — ^the association of
both melody and verse with his love — with that season of happiness and
joy — with her whom he had loved, and still loved, so fondly — affected
him profoundly.

He gasped — ^fastened his eyes upon the spot, as long as the song
continued. At its close he held forth his outstretched arms towards the
voice, and exclaimed brokenly : — " My Barbara !"

She could not resist that call — that offered embrace ; sick and
famishing with so long fast from his kindness — athirst for his estranged
affection — blinded by beholding them once more tendered thus unre-
strainedly, she rushed forward, and threw herself upon his bosom.

But he no sooner felt her clinging to him, than he started up, thrust

336 DESDEMONA )

her bead back, to look at her face, exclaiming : — ^^ Who is this ? Ninm !**
Then forcing himself out of her arms, and hurling her from him, with a
wild cry, he dashed through the doorway, leaped into his boat, and dis*
appeared over the dark waters.

After that night he was seen no more — ^he never returned ; and aft«r
that night, Barbara never lifted up her head. She went about, a forlorn,
dejected, listless creature. She, once so gay and chirping, — no cricket
was ever a more cheerful household thing — now slunk to and fro, joy-
less, hopeless. It was plain, her spring of life was snapped — her heart
had broken — her spirit had died within her.

Her early merry tunes and happy airs were all forsaken ; she never
sang at all, save one plaintive old ditty that seemed to haunt her fancy ;
for she hummed it well-nigh incessantly, though apparently without con-
sciousness She crooned it in her sleep— when, restless and uneasy, she
would turn, and toss, and mutter, wetting the pillow with her tears; she
would wake herself with mingled sobs, and broken snatches of this same
old song ; she would let her spindle lie idle on her knee, while she gazed
vacantly into the cloudless heavens, peopling them with visions, and
murmuring its simple burden of '^ willow, willow, willow." She lapsed
into its soft wail, as she watched the evening planet, or crescent moon ;
and when the myriad brightness of stars shone forth in the blue depth
of a Venetian night, Barbara's sad '^ willow, willow ; sing all a green
willow," would steal from her lips in faint despondent cadence.

She lacked neither attention nor sympathy. Her kind-hearted
mistress, the lady Erminia, left nothing untried, to comfort, to restore
her ; the young Desdemona, by her tender ingenuity in devising means
to cheer and console the dying girl, repaid back the debt which her own
babyhood owed to Barbara's ceaseless efforts to amuse and delight her.
If in Desdemona's infancy, Barbara's mirth and sprightliness^ had been
exerted untiringly for her pleasure, in Barbara's season of affliction, in
her last hours of despair, and heart-broken misery, Desdemona's
affectionate care was to the full as cordially, as lavishly, as constantly
bestowed in return.

But no kindness could console — no care restore ; nothing could

THE MAGNIFICO'S ( IIILD. 337

avail to revive the drooping girl. She literally pined to death before
their eyes. She never uttered a complaint ; never alluded to her loss :
never spoke Paolo's name ; but she lost all interest in life, and took
notice of nothing, and no one.

She was quiet, utterly passive to all that was said or done, and neithei
accepted nor refused attentions. She would curtsey mechanically in
reply to her lady's enquiries, but she rarely answered them by words.
She would try to smile when her young mistress sought to win her notice
by some kind piece of though tfuln ess, or gentle endearment.

When her brother Lancetto hovered near, endeavouring to express hia
quiet sympathy, she would feebly essay to form some of the signs by
which they were accustomed to hold communication ; but her hands
would soon drop by her side ; her eyes would fix wistfully ; she would
sigh, and hang her head ; and then she would murmur, '^ sing all a green
willow."

It did not last long. One evening, she was so weak, that her young
lady had placed her upon a couch, near the open window, that she might
enjoy the fresh air, without exertion ; for she could not even bear the
motion of a gondola — or rather the fatigue of being conveyed into one.

It was the lady Erminia's private room, where she could have whom she
liked, without chance of Brabantio's coming to object that her associates
were unworthy her presence. Accordingly, she sat there at her embroi-
dery, while her daughter went to and fro between the frame, and Bar-
bara's couch ; now plying her needle with her mother, now setting and
rearranging the pillows beneath the sick girl's head, who had sunk into
a soft doze. Lancetto stood quietly by, also ; for he had come to see
his sister, and the lady, bidding him not disturb her, asked him to wait
until she should awake.

The chamber was hushed. No sound but the low breathing of the
sleeper broke the stillness. Presently, clear and pure arose that sweet
voice, so sad, so touching in its toneof forlornness: it seemed an involun-
tary revelation of her sense of abandonment, — an unconscious utter-
ance of her sorrow ; her despair. " Sing all a green willow must bo my
garland."

838 DESDEMONA j

A paase, during which the listeners dared not look at each other,
lest they might see the moistened eyes, each knew the other wore ; then,
again the sweet voice breathed forth soft and low : — '* Let nobody blame
him, his scorn I approve.'* — The words were checked by a deep sigh, as
the sleeper turned uneasily. A moment after, she opened her eyes, and
attempted to sit up.

Desdemona was at her side instantly. She assisted her to rise ; re-
adjusted the pillows, and whispered a few tender words, — cheering, en-
couraging. Lancetto crept near to his sister, and took her hand within
his.

" He forsook me, because he loved me — I would have you know that :"
she said. ^' Mark it well ; he forsook me, because he loved me. He
left me to seek me. He thought I would have kept him from myself—
so he threw me off, that he might go and find me. He thrust me away,
but to be true to me. He pushed me from him, for my own sake. Be
sure of that ; he forsook me, because he loved me. Let nobody blame
him, his scorn I approve — mark that well !"

She turned to Lancetto. and pressed the hand that held hers ; she
turned to Desdemona and faintly smiled, looking into her eyes. Then
she closed her own ; and with an inward breath chanted '^ willow, willow
wilbw ;" — and so, died.

This young girPs sorrow and untimely death made a profound im-
pression on Desdemona. It saddened and depressed her to a degreef
of which no less gentle a nature than hers would have been capable.
It is rarely that childhood feels grief thus deeply; but Desdemona was
a rare child. Her feelings were moulded of such exquisite tenderness
and sensibility, her imagination was so lively, so susceptible, her heart
was so benign, so humane, so full of sympathy, charity, and all kindliness^
that she not merely pitied the uuhappiness of others — she shared it ;
she not only deplored, and commiserated suffering, she made it her own ;
she so warmly, so entirely, interested herself in that which affected those
she loved, that she became affected in nearly a similar manner.

Barbara's fate impressed her so strongly, that she fell into a dejected

THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 339

spiritless mcy)d, which alarmed her mother. She moped, grew absentj
abstracted, regardless of the objects which usually interested her. She
acquired a habit of standing idly, inanimately, her hands clasped loosely
before her, her arms hanging at length, her head drooping, her gaze bent
vacantly forth, without having any apparent aim ; and once, her mother
saw her lips move, and heard her unconsciously murmur the words of
poor Barbara's dying song.

The lady Erminia's motherly heart took fright. She thought she
saw her daughter sinking into the same apathy which had preceded the
young girl's death. She imparted her uneasiness to her lord, and be-
sought his permission to take their child for a short time from a spot
which was evidently fraught with too painful association for her young
heart.

Brabantio caught his wife's alarm. He gave immediate orders tor
their removal to a villa he possessed on the Brenta, that change of scene
might work its beneficial effects in giving a turn to the thoughts and
daily habits of his child. He appointed a proper retinue to attend the
lady Erminia and her daughter thither ; prescribed the establishment of
a numerous household, in his usual style of pomp and magnificence ;
and promised to join his wife and daughter there, as soon as the affairs
of state should permit his absence from Venice.

The prospect of change is seldom without its attraction for childish
fancy ; and already the thought of going to spend some time in a coun-
try-house with her mother, gave evident pleasure to the young Desde-
mona, and awakened a look of interest and expectation in her face, which
it had not worn since poor Barbara's death. Both mother and child
enjoyed the anticipation of this excursion and sojourn together ; and,
but for one incident, their pleasure would have been unalloyed.

On the day fixed for their departure, during the bustle and hurry of
removal, Brabantio came hastily into his wife's apartment, where she
sat at her embroidery-frame with Desdemona ; Lancetto, — who since his
sister's death had been appointed page to the lady Erminia, — being there
also in waiting.

The magnifico was full of some arrangement he had been making for

340 DESDEMONA ;

his lady's comfort and conyenience on the journey ; and he brooght
him a casket, which held a rich carcanct, gemmed with rubies and pearls,
for Erminia's wear. He told her that he did not expect her to dresa
like a rustic now that she was to be in villeggiatura ; but that he had
brought her a new ornament for her throat as a sample of the style in
which he hoped to see her appear when he should come to them at Bel-
vifita.

The lady thanked her lord, as so gallant a token deserved ; and
added, she should make the casket even more precious by keeping in it
the letters she hoped to receive from him, until such time as he could
come himself.

He smiled ; and was about to show her the secret of the spring-look
which fastened it ; when perceiving that he had not the key with him,
he bade the page go to his room, and fetch it from the table where be
supposed he had left it.

Lancetto, of course, did not hear the command. Brabantio, peroeiT*
ing that the lad stood motionless, instead of starting to obey him with
the alacrity which usually followed his slightest behest, exclaimed :—
" Did'st thou mark me, sirrah ? Why art not gone ?" The angry look
caught the lad's attention, but he in vain sought its meaning.

The lady Erminia hastily made a sign to her page, by which she
told h'm what her lord desired ; but Brabantio said: '^What mummery's
this ? Must thou await a signal from another, ere thou obey'st my or-
ders? Methinks, I am lord here, and a word from me may suffice."

" The poor lad's deaf, my father ;" whispered the gentle voice of
Desdemona : for her mother was trembling, and could not speak. And
then she repeated the order in such method, as that the page should un-
derstand what he was to do ; desiring him to hasten, in fetching the key.

The magnifico muttered a frowning " pshaw," as he examined the fret-
work of the gold casket, and drummed his fingers impatiently on the lid|
while Lancetto was gone.

He speedily returned, with a key, which he tendered to Brabantio ;
who had no sooner snatched it from him, than he exclaimed : — ^'' Wh j,
this is not the key of the casket, dolt ! This is the key of my cabinet 1

THE HAONIFIOO'S CHILD. 341

Thoa'rt dull as well as deaf, not to be able to bring the key I sent thee
for. This is not the right one !"

The page, who heard not a syllable, but saw by the irate expression
of his master's face that there was something wrong, stood meekly
waiting.

This only incensed Brabantio the more, who exclaimed * — ^' Out of
my sight, sirrah ! Be gone ! I'll have none here, who cannot obey me
at a word."

^' He is obedient ; but, alas, he cannot hear. Bear with him, my
lord :" murmured Erminia.

^ And why should I ? I'll have no dullards about me, that cannot
hear a plain command. Let him be dismissed, I say."

^' He is Barbara's brother ;" said the lady softly ; for the reluctance
she felt to part with one thus associated, gave her courage to contend
for a moment with her husband's will.

" What then 7 Were he mine own brother, he should away, an* he
knew not how to obey a command of mine. See how the contumelious
varlet stands there, and stirs not. Begone, fellow ; when I bid thee !"

Brabantio actually stamped his foot, exasperated to fury by the deaf
lad's unmoved look ; so unaccustomed was he to behold any thing but the
most implicit and instantaneous submission to the slightest intimation of
his will.

The lady Erminia and her daughter both hastily signed to the page
that he sh 'uld retire ; but it was too late to appease the anger of the
magnifico, who reiterated his command distinctly and emphatically, that
Lancet to should be at once and for ever discarded from the household.

His dismissal cost the lady Erminia a pang ; not only for the lad's
own sake, whom she had grown to like for his quiet ways, and faithful
attachment towards herself and child ; but for the sake of his poor
mother and sister. However, there was no motive which could long
weigh importantly with her, against the consideration of her husband's
will and pleasure, and accordingly Lancetto was given up.

In the beautiful villa Bclvista, on the Brenta, Erminia spent some
very happy time. She had the joy of seeing the bloom return to her

842 DESDEMONA ;

daughter's check ; the look of health reyisited the face ; the Tigour of
health reanimated the frame; the gleeful expression native to joutlu
once more sparkled in the eyes ; and the lady felt that her child was
spared to her.

It was a charming retreat ; and possessed that delight of all delights
to a child — especially a Venetian child — ^a garden. There were boweni,
and alcoves^ and terraces, and fountains ; sloping turfs, statues, and
vases ; avenues, and tufts of trees ; with flower-beds in profusion. Here,
the mother and daughter passed their days in blissful retirement.
There was ample opportunity for pursuing their studies, their elegant
needlework, their music, and the thousand and one feminine avocations,
that a mother devises for the employment, the instruction, the pastime
of a beloved daughter. Here, Dcsdemona recovered health, while she
acquired that complete knowledge of housewifely duties, and that variety
of graceful attainment, which caused her to be afterwards noted as one
of the most accomplished women of her time. Here she cultivated and
developed those endowments, which subsequently shone forth in such
maturity of excellence.

But while her daughter grew in beauty, health, and accomplishment,
the lady Erminia gradually declined in strength. Her diminished
energy, for some time, was perceptible only to herself ; for she shrank
from paining her husband by its discovery ; and she still more carefully
preserved the secret from her daughter, whose youth and happiness she
would not have had clouded by anxiety and alarm.

But Brabantio was too sincerely attached to her not to make the
discovery for himself His affection for Erminia had ever been the
most powerful of the few tender emotions he had experienced ; and it
now enabled him to perceive the first apparent tokens of her declining
health. He proposed change of air and scene ; he planned a delightfal
journey for her round the coast of Italy in one of his superb galleys.

They took their young daughter with them ; they lingered about the
beautiful shores of the Adriatic and Mediterranean, and purposely pro*
tracted the time of their pilgrimage, that its changes and wanderings
might renovate the vigour of her who was so dear.

THE MA6NIFIC0*S CHILD. 348

The plan saooeeded ; for a long spaoe of time, the evil was warded
off.

Both mother and datljfikteT were so well pleased with Belvista, that
on the conclusion of their tour, they prayed to return thither instead of
to Venice ; and Brabantio indulged their wish ; repairing thither him-
self as frequently as his senatorial duties permitted.

Some years elapsed, unmarked by any particular event ; excepting
that each year Desdemona seemed to her fond mother to increase in
worth and loveliness.

It was not until her daughter was on the verge of womanhood, that
the malady returned, and the lady Erminia died. When her hour
came, it found her calm, peaceful, resigned. Her death was serene,
gentle, as her own nature. She sank into rest. She slept, never more
to awake.

Her mother's death was severly felt by Desdemona. But it pro-
duced no such effects, as the shock of Barbara's early fate. Her char-
acter had since acquired the sobriety and calm of added years, as well
as of holy teaching. Her mother had carefully implanted faith, reliance,
and trust, in comforts not of earth; such as might prove her child's con-
solation in the hour she herself had long foreseen. Instead therefore
of yielding to despondency, and the languor of sorrow, Desdemona strove
to derive consolation from a more correct fulfilment of her duties ; she
offered her vows to Heaven with a fervour and leal of piety no less
trustful of comfort than unfeigned in humility ; she devoted herself to
her father's will and pleasure, and studied how she might best conduce
to his happiness ; she resumed those errands of charity and benevolencej
which she had first learned to perform from the example, and in the
company of her beloved mother. This association alone, would have
rendered them dear to her heart, and a source of consolation, even had
they not possessed a consoling virtue of their own, in their nature and
exercise. But partly, from habit, partly from individual feeling, innate
and acquired, her own soul alone was cognizant of the souirce whence she
sought to derive solace. She confided to no one her aspirations, hei

344 DEs; EMONA ;

duteous endeavours ; she found what comfort she could from them, bat
she savoured them silently, secretly, with no other guide than her own
spirit of love and gentleness. f ■*

To her father she appeared in her quiet assiduity, ever at hand to
minister to his pleasure, during his domestic hours ; she was affection-
ately duteous, meekly watchful, beautiful, soft-paced, sweet-voiced, with
a hand dexterous and light, eyes serene in their fond observance, and a
carriage so still and easy, that she seemed rather to glide to and firo,
than to walk or step from place to place. She had a buoyant grace
of motion, as if borne on wings, or floated upon air. She looked an
embodiment of household peace and joy ; the tranquillity, and dove-like
nested comfort of home personified in woman — home's presiding genius.

Her father had brought his daughter back with him from Belvista
to Venice on the death of her so dear to them both. Now it was that
he for the first time learned the full value of the treasure he had lost,
and of the treasure his Ermiuia had bequeathed to him. In his child,
Desdemoua, he found renewed all those gentle virtues that distinguished
her mother ; and he grew to love her with a double love, — for her own
sake, and for hers of whom she reminded him. Keflccted in the
daughter, he perceived the true lustre of those qualities inherited from
the mother, and learned to prize them at their real worth. He had
never so entirely known his wife's excellence as now, that he beheld it
shining in his daughter's beauty and virtue.

But though he thus recognized and worshipped gentleness in the
characters of his wife and daughter, his own nature gained nothing of
corresponding suavity. He was still the same imperious Brabantio;
proud, harsh, despotic. Though a fond and indulgent father, he was
fond and indulgent only after his own peculiar fashion. He was fond
of his daughter for her attention and submission to him ; he took
pleasure in her beauty, her accomplishments ; he was intensely conscious
of her grace and loveliness ; he indulged her in every desire she could
form of taste or luxury. But he was as far as ever from any power of
winning her confidence, or responding to the sympathies and hidden
instincts of affection and imagination which lurked within her heart

THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 345

He knew nothing of them ; he suspected nought of their existence
beneath that serene exterior, that still demeanour of hers. She was
hardly aware of them hflfilf ; but had she known them ever so palpa-
bly, she would all too surely have felt they could meet no response from
him. What aspirations she was imperfectly conscious of, therefore, she
locked close within her own thoughts, and let the only satisfaction they
sought, be found in secret and in silence.

Thus it came, that her fervour, her yearning desire to hold com-
munion with the spirit of her mother, her hope to gain fortitude for the
endurance of her loss, led her forth at quiet morning hours ; to matins,
or early mass, in one of the churches that neighboured her father^s
palace. Here, in the gray dawn, before the sun poured his golden rays
through the dim aisles, to touch with light and warmth the marble
pillars and pavement, would Desdemona kneel, pouring forth her soul
in prayer and adoration, in humble supplication, in hope, in trust,
in faith.

To this quiet old church, would the magnifico's child steal all unsus-
pected and unattended, irresistibly drawn thither by her pious ardour,
her desire for unwatched devotion.

And thus it came also, that her inward craving for kindness and
sympathy, and the necessity for doing good natural to her, led her to
watch for those periods of the day when her father's attendance at the
senate ensured his not requiring her presence at home, that she might
take her way to such haunts of poverty and distress as she knew furnished
ample scope for her charitable purposes.

It might be, that beside this feeling which made her shrink from
letting her pursuits be known, she was swayed by a spice of that romance
which had, in his youth, led her own father to take a sort of delight in
the mystery attending his secret marriage and intercourse with Erminia:
certain it is, that, inherited or not, there was a strong tendency to the
imaginative and the romantic, in Desdemona's disposition. Her fancy
had always been strangely excited about that absent sailor-uncle of hers ;
his abrupt departure, his unexplained absence, his probable adventures,
had always possessed a singular charm of wonder and speculation for

346 DESDEMONA ;

her mind, and had oocnpied many an honr of solitary musing. The
fascination which all that presented food foc^Jier imagination had for
her, might thus have "been one source of thfTTinobserved way in which
she chose to pay her visits — both of piety and charity. But the main-
spring of her reserved conduct, was undoubtedly, awe of her father. -

One morning, soon after her return to Venice, Desdemona had gone
forth to the old church close by. It was situated on the banks of a nar-
row by-canal, and was not many paces from the Brabantio palace ; so
that, plainly dressed and veiled, the lady could readily reach it un*
observed.

She had been so engrossed with her devotions, that she did not
remark a lad who was kneeling not far from the spot where she had
taken her place ; but when she arose, upon the conclusion of the service,
and passed near to the spot where he still crouched upon the pavement,
she was surprised to hear a stifled cry, and find that her veil was
abruptly, and as if by an involuntary movement, seized, and its hem
pressed to the lips of the kneeling person.

She looked upon the face more attentively ; and then she saw that,
however altered by illness and suffering, however wan and attenuated,
it was no other than Lancetto's.

She uttered his name in a tone of pity and surprise. The lad oonld
not hear the sound ; but he saw that he was recognized.

" Forgive me, lady ! I could not forbear" — he faltered

Desdemona, in her benign way^ raised him ; and then, by signs, asked
what had befallen, since he had left the Brabantio palace ; expreming
regret for the want and misery betokened in his looks ; for, haggard
eyes, pale cheeks, ragged clothing, spoke a plain tale.

He told her all his little history. How, upon his dismissal, he had
gone back to the old place where Paolo had lodged, and where he had
watched and tended him in his distraction. How he had lingered there
in his own disgrace and abandonment, reckless of what became of bim,
after being turned away from the only roof where he had known happi-
ness. How he had been driven forth by the pangs of hunger to seek
food ; how his scanty resources were soon exhausted ; how he had hong

i^irl^

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD. 347

about the public places, the Piaizetta, and St. Mark's Square, in hope
of meeting with some charitable person who would be content to take a
poor lad as page, without ilt character, on the strength of his need ; how
he had failed in all such hope ; how, when well-nigh starving, he had
wandered away from the great thoroughfares, lest he might no longer bo
able to resist the temptation to beg (which had often beset him, he said,
when he beheld the throng of well-clothed well-fed people passing close
to him) ; and how that, on creeping along by a low deserted mud-bank,
skirting one extremity of the city, looking out towards the gulf, he had
perceived an empty boat drifting along near in shore. That he had
been struck by a look about the craft, which he thought he knew ; that
he had succeeded in drawing it to land ; when, upon examination, he
had recognized it surely for Paolo's boat, which he had first suspected it
to be.

He went on to say, that, though the finding of the boat had occa-
sioned him much grief, — as affording but too clear evidence of the fate
of his friend, — ^yet that eventually it had furnished him with the means
of livelihood ; bare and scanty it is true, for there was great difficulty in
getting any one to hire a gondolier who had the inconvenient misfortune
of being deaf; but still, by plying constantly, and endeavouring to re-
commend himself by patience and assiduity, he had contrived to ward off
absolute famine.

One of Desdemona's first works of charity, was to establish this poor
lad in comfort in the old lodging that had been his friend's; he was thus
made independent of chance hirers, while she crowned his content, by
herself using his gondola whenever she required transport to and fro on
her benevolent visitations to the sick, the poor, and the afflicted. By
this means, too, the privacy she so much desired, was ensured ; for Lan-
cetto could bring his gondola to the small water-entrance at the back ot
the palace ; and Desdemona. muffled in the quiet black dress, veil, and
mask, which formed the ordinary out door dress of a Venetian lady,
could step into the boat at any hour she chose, without attracting other
observation than that of her own women, who were too much attached
wO their gentle mistress, and too well acquainted with her virtues, to

348 DE»D£MONA ;

doubt the propriety of anj thing she ohose to do, eyen had not the dread
in which they held the magnifico, her father, prevented their mention 0/
any circumstance that took place in his household unknown to him.

But thus it happened, through the disposition of Brabantio, and the
soft timidity of his daughter, that a clandestine air was given to actions
not only perfectly innocent, but even virtuous and praiseworthy ; and
that one of the most pure of women, insensibly allowed herself a kind
of tacit deception, and equivocal procedure in conduct. Tet how should
she, conscious of unsullied rectitude in thought, word, and deed, dream
that she was swerving from duty in pursuing those duties which reli*
gion and charity enjoined, merely because she pursued them in secret?
To perform them without parade, without ostentation, seemed their
best fulfilment. She did not detect the one motive beside, for conceal-
ing them — anxiety to avoid her father's possible disapproval. The gen-
tle Desdemona meant honestly ; she did honestly — to the utmost power
of her gentle nature.

Very little short of an angel upon earth seemed this gracious lady
to her faithful attendant, Lancetto, as he conveyed her about the city
on her missions of beneficence, carrying help and comfort whithersoever
she went He looked at her with the reverence with which he would
have gazed upon a saint, as she sat there beneath the black awning of
the gondola, muffled in her black dress and veil, yet through all which
seemed to pierce the radiance of her grace, her goodness, her benign
beauty.

Sometimes, when they reached the less frequented canals, or got out
upon the broad waters of the lagunes, Desdemona would take off her
mask and throw back her veil, that she might woo the welcome freshness
of the air.

One twilight evening, as she sat thus, letting the breeze play upon her
face, Lancetto perceived its expression change, from its accustomed sere-
nity and sweetness, to a look of regretful reflection.

The fair head drooped towards the shoulder, the cheek paled, the soft
eyes filled, the hands fell listlessly, the arms hung by her side, and the
quivering lips gave utterance to some sound. The attitude, the whole

■. -rf*.

THE MAONIFICOS CHILD. 349

%ppoaranoe, told her thoughts yividlj. The deaf lad, Lanoetto. felt and
saw she was thinking of his sister — poor Barbara ; and he almost seemed
to hear the sad low-breathed strain that he knew had been hers, and to
distinguish those murmured words of " Willow, willow ; sing all a green
willow !"

The sob Lancetto could not restrain, told his mistress* that the poor
lad had penetrated the subject of her reverie, notwithstanding his defec-
tive hearing, and she hastened to relieve the pain she had unwittingly
caused, by some kindly communication addressed to him by such signs
as he could comprehend.

To have recovered the services of this poor lad, quiet, mild, and faith-
fully attached, was a great source of self-gratulation to Desdemona. She
was pleased to have him once again, for his own sake, for the sake of those
with whose memory he was associated, and for her own.

It is broad noon — the full meridian blaze of an Italian sun — when a
squadron of noble war-galleys sail up the blue Adriatic, and cast anchor
at the port of Venice. The fleet brings news to the state, of recent con-
quest against the Turkish force ; and soon all is welcome and triumph.
The citizens flock to the quays ; loud voices rend the skies ; the court-
yard and avenues to the ducal palace, are filled with messengers hurrying
to and fro ; its balconies are thronged with senators and dignitaries ;
everywhere is eager inquiry, and congratulation. Among the crowds
who are hurrying ashore from the vessels, there is one solitary man
whom no one welcomes, no one hastens to meet, no one receives, no one
observes. He is dressed like a Venetian naval officer ; and as he pre-
pares to quit the ship in which he has just arrived, he turns to wring the
hand of the captain, with warm thanks for his aid since he redeemed
him from captivity ; telling him ^ he can never forget that to him he
owes it, that he ever exchanged the rags of slavery for the uniform
which had been his before his capture. The friends part; the captain
remaining on board his galley to see all his orders fulfilled to the last ;
the other hastening on shore. But he no sooner touches land than
\ie quits it again for a gondola, into which he flings himself, desiring

850 DE8DEM0NA )

the boatman to convey him as speedily as may be to the Brabantio
palace.

" But I will not risk any such fatal effects, as followed my last hasty
and unannounced return ;'' he muttered to himself ^ I will send her
timely word ere I present myself, that her gentle heart may be prepared
to welcome •ncc again her brother. Time wears the edge off all
things. Sharpest stones, it wears smooth ; actual pangs of grief, i\
softens ; keenest animosities and resentments, it blunts into toleratior
and forbearance. Years of absence have enabled me to think of meeting
him now with equanimity ; and if I find that he has been a fond hus-
band to her, I shall learn even to regard him, for her sake. I think I
will see him first, that he may aid me to break the intelligence to her.
Dost thou think thou can'st bear a message discreetly to the Signior
Brabantio for me, fellow?" added the officer aloud to the boatman. "T
would have conference with him ; and I think of announcing my arrival,
ere I present myself"

^^ You do well signior capitano, to use some little ceremonial in ad-
dressing yourself to the Signior Brabantio, if you are not intimately
known to him ;" returned the gondolier. ^^ The magnifico is high and
mighty, and docs not readily admit strangers to his presence without
credentials of their deserving the honor. I don't think he's much
altered, to judge by what I hear from those who ought to know what he
is — being, as they are, of his own household, both Luigi and Antonio.
However, there are not wanting, people, who'll tell you he hasn't quite
80 much of the devil's graces — pride and haughtiness, — as he used to
have, before his wife's death. Santa Madre di Dio ! What makes yea
turn so pale, signior capitano ?" added the man, as he witnessed the
effect of his last words upon the stranger's countenance.

Gratiano, — for it was no other than Erminia's long-absent brother, —
made a sign tliat the boatman should delay his approach to the Braban-
tio palaoe ; and when they had withdrawn to a more retired spot, he
«|uestioned tlic man farther, upon the terrible words he had dropped.

He now too surely learned the fact of his sister's recent death ; and
found that his return had been too late, by a few months only. So bit

THE MAGNIFIOO'S CHILD. 85 1

tcrly did he feel this severiDg of the only tie that bound him to Venice
that it seemed as if his redemption from captiyity were valueless, now
that she no longer lived, who would the most delightedly have hailed
his return. The happiness of freedom was poisoned now that he oould
not share that happiness with Erminia. Melancholy, and despondent,
ho hung back from the society of his brother officers ; he forsook hia
quarters at the Sagittary, only repairing thither when naval and mi^'-
tary discipline demanded his attendance ; and resumed his old lodgings,
once occupied by his father and sister. He fed his grief by repe}»teii
visits to the church where Erminia's remains were deposited; an? for
some time her image solely occupied his thoughts.

On a certain evening, returning from one of these mournful visits,
his gondola was gliding through one of the quiet canals that led- to the
quarter where his humble lodging was situated, when in passing near to
a fine old church that stood there, the sound of the organ pealed forth
into the open air, and made him give a sign to the boatman to pause.

It was the vesper service. Through the draperies that screened the
church-door, came the volume of sound, — ^full, sonorous, solemn. He
remained still for a few seconds, to listen, as the tones came floating
upon the water, and mingling with the rich warm breath of an Italian
sunset ; but when they ceased, he could not resist the impulse that bade
him motion the boatman to row to the shore, upon which he step ed,
ascending the few marble stairs leading to the church, and entered.

As ha gently raised the heavy curtain, a flood of glowing evening
light poured into the quiet sanctuary ; but as the folds fell, after admit-
ting him. the cool shadowy stillness of the place was restored. A few
dim lights burned from the taF wax candles on the altar ; a faint smell
arose from the flowers that filled the vases which decked it ; the organ
was hushed ; the choristers had ceased ; a few devotees knelt here and
there in the body of the churoh ; while the officiating high priest, with
his attendant deacons and acolytes, moved to and fro upon the altar stops
with noiseless feet, performing an occasional silent genuflexion, with bend*
ed head.

Presently the organ rolled forth in its swelling majesty ; and the

352 DESDEMONi ;

choral voices chanted, '- Magnificat anima nua Dotninum : Et exuk»
vit spiritus mens in Deo salutari meo"

Gratiano i$ank upon his knee with iiiclined head and lowlj h3art, as
he reverently crossed himself; and as liis soul as well as his lips echoed
the words, his spirit owned itself elevated and strengthened, — if not re-
joic'ing and exultant, by reason of its brotherly sorrow. Never, since
its first having overtaken him. had that sorrow been so assuaged, — so
profoundly relieved. He could now for the first time think of his dead
/lister, as one of the blest in heaven, instead of fruitlessly regretting her
loss upon earth.

He remained thus until vespers were concluded ; he was then turning
to leave the quiet church, when he perceived one figure still kneeling
there. It was a lady, attired in black, and closely veiled ; who seemed
so completely abstracted, and absorbed in her private devotions, as to be
unaware that every one else was retiring. He could not help lingering
a moment, in the half-formed hope of seeing her more nearly ; but find-
ing that she stirred not, he felt the indelicacy of staying to watch her,
and withdrew.

He wa.s surprised to find that the remembrance of this kneeling figure
?aunted him afterwards. Though so completely screened by her dress
^iid veil, there was something that promised grace and dignity, which
n. ale him wish to see her arise and move ; there was an indescribable
air which betokened nobleness and beauty, even beneath that plain black
garb ; and he could not help feeling an interest about this half-seen lady,
— for lady, he was convinced she was, — a restless, inquisitive, irresistible
desire to know more of her. Who has not felt this inexpressible, yet
invincible attraction towards some other object of the kind at some time
or other?

He wfMit for several successive days to the same church, at the vesper
hour ; but he never saw her there again. He could not forbear watching
the spot where she had knelt, until it looked so empty, and so mocking
to his wishes, that he could have believed at last, he must have seen her
there only in imagination.

But once, as he was threading the busy crowd on *he Rialto ; hap-

.^..fc^

THE HAONIFICO'S CHILD. 353

pening to cast his eyes upon the boats that were gliding on the grand
canal beneath the bridge^ one gondola among them attracted his attention,
for, as it shot along, he caught a glimpse of a female figure wrapped in
black, which, from some instantaneous and unaccountable conviction,
struck him as being the same he had seen kneeling in the church. He
ran to the landing-place, took boat, and hurried in the direction which
the gondola seemed to be pursuing. But he could recover no traces of
it : phantom-like, it seemed to have vanished.

A day or two afterwards, as he lay back in his gondola, musing or
the figure which now chiefly occupied his thoughts, he saw it. for an
instant, in one of the narrow alleys leading up from the canal, along
which he was then floating. It seemed to be attended by another, also
darkly clad and veiled. He saw them distinctly, as they passed on through
the alley, which was in a poor quarter of the city, but in which, at that
hour, there were not many people about. He stopped his boatman in
haste, bidding him land there ; but not before the gondola had passed be-
yond the opening of the alley. By the time the boat was brought to, the
figures were out of sight. Gratiano leaped ashore, and sped up the pas-
sage at a quick pace ; but nothing of the veiled lady or her companion
could he see. Whether they had entered a house, or whether they turned
down some of the winding alleys that diverged from the one in which he
liad seen them, he could not determine ; but certain it was, they were
gone.

On the following morning, he fancied he was nearer to his hope of
tracking the black-robed mystery. He saw the figure he now knew so
well, step from a gondola, on to a landing in front of some shabby -look-
ing houses, one of which it entered. Ordering his boatman to draw to
the landing, where lay the lady's gondola awaiting her return, Gratiano
determined to await it also; and in the meantime addressed a few words
to the attendant who had charge of the boat. He was a young fellow,
and sat in a quiet abstracted way, his arms folded, and his eyes fixed
upon the door through which his mistress had disappeared, ready to re-
ceive her the moment she came back.

Gratiano was surprised at haying no reply, when he addressed the

354 DE8DEM0NA ;

lady's gondolier ; he repeated his appeal in a louder tone, but still thert
was neither answer, nor token that he had been heard. Provoked at the
unmoved way in which the young man sat there, the officer touched him
on the shoulder with his sheathed sword, exclaiming: — ''^ How now, fellow,
is this sauciness or sulkiness, that I speak twice to thee ciyilly, without
a civil answer?"

The young boatman turned at the touch, and looked in the face of
the stranger ; but only shook his head, and resumed his former
attitude.

^* Per Bacco ! The fellow's airs of insolence make one smile ;"
muttered Gratiano, half laughing. ^^ He deigns not the slightest notice.
He affects no less mystery than his lady. He chooses to shroud him-
self in this silence of his, as she does in her black muffles, so closely
drawn around her. She seems some disguised princess of Arabian
story ; and this, forsooth, is her mute, — ^her dumb slave, doubtless."

While Gratiano was debating with himself, whether or no he should
make any farther attempt to force the young gondolier into some
explanation, a vessel containing a party of brother officers came by ;
who, seeing their comrade, hailed him, and asked him to go with them
to a grand parade, to be held that morning in the Piazza St Mark,
whither they were all repairing. He declined ; but they persisted.

^' What dost thou do here, Gratiano? loitering away the gayest hours
of tlie day? Come with us, man. All the world will be at St. Mark's
— all the Venice world — her proudest nobles — her brightest ladies.
Nay, an' the promise of beholding fairest women do not lure thee, it
must be something of weight indeed detains thee," said one, a hand-
some young Florentine.

^^ What if it be some one woman still fairer than any of those thou
promisest him sight of, that keeps him here?" said another of the
officers with a sly and somewhat sarcastic laugh ; '^ methinks he has the
riglit lover's look ; shily skulking here by himself, as if in pursuit of
some hopeful assignation."

'' Is it so, i'faith? And have we caught the sober-seeming Gratiano?
Do we find him to be no better than one of ourselves; a ruffling gallant?

THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 355

Marry, it may be so indeed ; for now I bethink me, this place bears none
of the best character," said the young Florentine officer, glancing at
the houses, with a smile, and a light look.

" It seems, you know their repute ; and haply, by experience, know
too, that it is well-founded ;" retorted he who had laughed sarcastically
before, and now did so again. " If they are haunts of yours, it is odds,
but we are right in our suspicion of its beipg some gallant adventure
which detains our friend from us."

" Have with you, gentlemen !" exclaimed Gratiano, eager to see them
gone from the spot ; and finding there were no other means of ridding
himself of their importunity, than by accompanying them.

When, however, he contrived to escape from their society, and
returned in all haste to the spot, he found, as he had expected, the
lady, the gondola, the dumb attendant, all flown. Nevertheless, he con-
soled himself with the circumstance that she had not made her reappear-
ance while the party of officers were there ; as he felt, that the chance
of her being compromised, would have been far worse to him than the
present disappointment.

For some days, he saw nothing of the incognita. He tried to take
more interest in the pursuits of his brother officers, and to make himself
more companionable among them, than he had felt able to do, in the
first sorrow of learning his sister's death. The party of young men wha
had urged him to join them that morning, were not precisely brother
officers of his, they being in the military service, and he in the naval
service of Venice ; but he had frequently met them, and their frank
soldierly gaiety and ease led to some comradeship. They were now full
of the expected advent of their general, the warlike Othello, a noble
Moor, high in the confidence and employ of the Venetian state.

He had been engaged on their behalf in the long-protracted warfare
against the Turks ; but this had lately terminated in a glorious action
wherein the arms of Venice had been triumphantly successful, and
which it was expected would put a stop to hostilities for some time
to come.

Great preparations were making to receive the Moorish general with

356 DBSDEMONA ;

the honors due to one who had achieved such acoumulated renown to the
state ; and his officers, — who had preceded him to Venice, by a short
period, during which he staid behind with one or two others to settle
some private aiFairs that required his personal inspection, — were among
those who expected his arrival with the greatest eagerness. In all thisi
Qratiano took the natural interest belonging to his profession ; besides
that which he did his best to muster for the sake of being sociable with
his comrades, whose thoughts ran upon nothing else. But his own, do
what he would, often reverted to the veiled lady, whom he had met so
singularly and so frequently, and of whom he had learned so little.

About this time, he bethought him of a charge he had undertaken
for a veteran sailor who had been killed in an engagement fought on
board that ship which had brought himself home. The old man had
been cut down, while fighting at the side of Gratiano ; and lay weltering
in his blood, until victory proclaimed, gave the officer an opportunity of
raising him in his arms, and seeing to his wounds. The old mariner,
who knew he was dying, besought Gratiano to waste no more time in
looking to hurts that were mortal ; but if he wished to do him good, he
said, he could do it far more effectually by taking charge of some money
— his hoarded pay — which he wished to send to his only son, in Venice.
The dying man, pointing to the neckerchief around his throat, as a sign
that money was secreted there, gasped a few words — the name of a
Venetian alley — the name of his boy, who he said was sickly, and full
of sickly fancies, and whose heart was set upon being a painter ; and
then he rambled off into an unintelligible murmur about the foolish lad,
who let his head run upon Titian, and Giorgionc, and other daubers
upon land — when there was far finer colouring to be seen abroad on the
green sea, and along her shores, than upon any canvas that was eyer
daubed : but the lad was sickly — too sickly for sea, he supposed, and
there an end ; with which, his words broke off into a gurgle, and he fell
dead on the deck.

Gratiano, reproaching himself for having so long neglected the fulfil-
ment of this charge, now set out determined to seek the young artisti
and to deliver his father's dying bequest.

THE MAGNrPICO's CHILD. 357

He had no difficulty in finding the alley the old man had named ;
and after a few inquiries, he found that in one of its houses the sailor's
son still lodged. He was preparing to enter, when his attention was at-
tracted towards a gondola, which lay near, and which he knew to be the
mysterious lady's, by perceiving that within it sat her silent attendant
in precisely the same attitude as before — ^his arms folded, and his eye&
fixed upon the door, whence he expected his mistress to appear.

Gratiano had scarcely made this observation, ere the lady herselt
came forth from the house he had been seeking. She advanced hastily
towards the landing, as shunning observation ; but just as she approach-
ed it, — ere she was within reach of her attendant's arm extended to her
aid, — her foot slipped, and she might have fallen, had it not been that
Gratiano, who stood close by, proflfered timely support. It was so re-
spectfully as well as so firmly and earnestly given, and withal so oppor-
tunely, that the lady could do no less than accept and acknowledge the
attention, which she did with a curtsey full of modest dignity. Two
eyes like stars, turned towards him for a moment from beneath the black
velvet of her mask ; the slight motion of a pair of lips through its
mouth-piece was perceptible, while a murmured, *• Thanks, signior ;" just
reached his ear, and the next instant, she had stepped into her gondola,
and was gone.

He stood watching the vessel as it swept away, leaving a watery
track in its wake, but he saw nothing save the white hand that suddenly
appeared from beneath the black folds, as she strove to save herself from
falling, the star-like eyes, the lips that formed those gracious words, the
bending yet dignified form, the whole figure of lady*like grace and
gentleness as it stood lately beside him. Then came self-contemptuous
thoughts of his folly to indulge in saoh reveries. The contrast that his
own weather-beaten, sun-burned face, — ^lined and marked with the traces
which captivity, wandering, and all the hardships of a seafaring existence
had left, — presented with the evidenoes of youth and freshness which
distinguished this lady-vision ; the shy retirement of his manners, unfit-
ted by a sailor life for those graces which should win womanZy favor ;
all pressed upon him as so many reasons against allowing his imagina*

858 DESDEMONA )

tion to dwell upon youthful beauty, such as he felt hers to be. ^ Why,
these very hairs of mine, dulled and mingled as they are, should warn
me, from such wild, such miserable delusion, as feeding my fancy with
her image ! "

With a smile of self-mockery, he turned away, and was about to enter
the house he sought ; when his thoughts again reverted to the theme, in
shape of the question which had so often presented itself: — ''Who can
she be ? What is her object in these mysterious perambulations ? I
see her first, in church, kneeling, lost in prayer ; but I afterwards behold
her entering a house of questionable fame, I see her walking in an
obscure alley, attended only by another woman, I find her coming from
the abode of squalor and neglect — yet wherever I meet her, there is an
air of purity and nobleness invests herself, that proclaims her a being of
another sphere than those she haunts. Who, and what, is she?"

A second time checking his thoughts upon the subject which 80
perplexed and interested him. he went into the dwelling (which was a
lodging of the meanest description, where the extreme of indigence alone
would choose to harbour), and found his way to the upper story, occupied
by the young artist. The door stood ajar, and Gratiano had the oppor-
tunity of looking into the room, ere he entered. The whole appearance
was that of poverty, and utmost need ; but the look on the face of its
sole occupant showed its wants were scarce perceived, its bareness hardly
felt, in the absorbed contemplation and pursuit of that Art which to him
supplied the place of aught else upon Earth, and raised him to a Heayen
of happiness in its all-sufficing self The sick lad had risen from him
truckle bed, and was standing before his easel, brush and pallette in
hand, intently sketching in a figure upon the canvas ; while on his wan
face there sat an expression of entranced interest — of almost radiant
delight. His body was emaciated, his cheek was liollow, his eye sunken,
his hands were thin and trembling ; but they trembled with eagemeaa
as well as with weakness, and his eyes gleamed with the fire of artistic
excitement, as well as with fever and famine.

Gratiano softly approached ; but what was his surprise, on com-
ing within view of the picture upon the easel, to perceive that it

THE MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 359

vras no other than a sketch of the lady in blaok, who so occupied hia
thoughts.

A slight and involuntary exclamation attracted the attention of the
young painter ; and then Gratiano hastened to account for his appear-
ance, by fulfilling the object which had brought him thither. After he
had duly delivered the request of the veteran sailor, and satisfied all the
filial interrogation which his story brought forth, he alluded to the sketch
upon which the young artist was at work.

^' It is an attempt I have made to represent an angel ;" said the
young man, with enthusiasm. " You smile," continued he, " to see black
robes, veil, and mask, instead of the white flowing raiment, the wings,
the unshadowed countenance that embody our usual conception of an-
gelic beings. But the angel I have here sought to depict, is one of those
permitted to visit Earth — a gracious, a benign, a gentle-hearted woman.
A spirit of beneficence, kindness, consolation, who brings help and heal-
ing in her hand, charity in her heart, tenderness in her eyes, — whose
feet are guided by pity, and whose wings are those of holiness and good-
ness. She came but now, hither ; and I have tried to fasten my impres-
sion of her presence upon the canvas."

" Some charitable mortal lady, you would say, who visits the sick
and the aflflicted ?" rejoined Gratiano eagerly. " Do you not know who
she is 1 Have you never seen her otherwise than thus veiled and
masked ?

'• I never saw her at all until to-day ;" replied the artist. " I heard
of a kind gentlewoman who brought assistance to an unhappy fellow-
lodger of mine, a widow, with two sick children. This poor widow has
taken a sort of motherly interest in me, because she fancies I look
weakly and hectic, as she tells me ; and lately, in her neighbourliness,
she came to my room, to put it a little in order, and do a few house*
wifely matters for me that she thought I needed, kind soul, and then
she told me how a strange lady had suddenly come to see her ; how she
had brought medicines and clothing for the little ones, how she had
given relief and assistance to herself, and how she came always alone^
always closely veiled, and always in plain black. And then the widow

3b0 DESDEMOXA )

went on to say, that for all her plain dress, and her being without
attendants, and her keeping so closely masked and muffled, she was verj
sure she was a high lady and a virtuous lady-:— for that ske spoke in a
low soft voice, and had a manner all gentleness and kindness, and ona
of the whitest as well as the lightest hands that ever raised a poor sick
child's head, or touched its aching limbs."

" To-day," continued the young painter, " I had myself an opporta-
nity of judging how correctly my widow-woman had described the soft
voice and the white hand ; for in her neighbourly zeal, my poor friend
brought her benefactor to see me, with some of the usual hints abont
hectic, and fever, and over-work ; but the veiled lady, with a delicacy
that seems native to her, as well as indicative of high-bred nobleness,
spoke of my beloved Art, professed herself pleased with the attempts I
have made in it, and ordered a picture, leaving the choice of subject to
myself I have already conceived one. which I shall submit to her, on
her next visit ; but meantime, I could not resist the temptation I felt to
make this sketch of herself from memory, for my own delight."

Gratiano felt just as strong a temptation, to oifer the painter his own
price for the sketch ; but. considering that it would be unfair to deprive
him of what possessed so paramount a value in his eyes, as well as his
own, asked him if he would paint him a duplicate, as he had taken a
fancy to the subject; and after a little farther conversation, and a
promise to come and see him again in a few days, the officer took hia
leave.

When, however, at the end of those few days, he returned to the
young artist's lodging, Gratiano found that the widow-neighbour had
only too truly discerned the fatal hectic and fever of overstrained thought,
and overwrought exertion, together with that of inanition ; he learned,
that the young painter had been seized with a rapid and mortal illneu
which ended his existence in the course of a few hours ; and that, dying,
he had desired to have the sketch of the angel in black, and one other
foyorite picture, buried with him.

And now took place the event to which all Venice had been eagerlj

THE MAGNIFICO'8 CHILD. 861

looking forward. The Moorish captain, Othello, general in the army of
the Venetian state, made his entry into the city. He was received from
on board his galley, by the duke himself, and all the members of the
senate. There was a public entertainment given in the open air, in St.
3Iark's place, at which the magnificds, the chief families, the most dis-
tinguished members of illustrious houses, and all the highest nobility of
Venice were present, to welcome with due honor, the return of the
victorious warrior.

In virtue of his naval rank, Gratiano was one of the guests. In all
that fair assemblage, as may be supposed, the individual who most
attracted his attention, was the valiant Moor, Othello. He was curious
to behold a man of whom he had heard so much, but whom, as yet, it
happened, he had never seen. He had heard of him at Rhodes, Aleppo,
Cyprus, and other places, where his vicissitudes in the service of his
country had taken him ; and everywhere he had heard the general
spoken of with one accord, as truly noble, an accomplished soldier, a
skilful commander, an honorable man, high in virtue as in renown. All
that he now saw of the man's bearing went to confirm the character
which fame had given him. He seemed noble among nobles; distin-
guished among the distinguished ; honorable among the honored ; full
of dignity among the dignified ; and worthy of the high regard paid to
him by the highest personages there. By the side of even ducal magni-
ficence, and senatorial greatness, he looked princely and majestic, —
heroic in soul, as in achievement.

Next to the Moor, there was another person who chiefly interested
Grratiano. This was the senator, Brabantio ; his brother-in-law. With
what a contrariety of emotion did he once more look upon the man, who
had played so conspicuous a part in his family history. With what
mingled sadness and pity did he look upon the face once so handsome,
so fiery, so animated, which had won the heart of his sister Erminia,
now worn, and thoughtful, with a furrowed brow, and a contracted lip ;
the hair, once bright and thick, now thinned, and greyish ; the frame,
before so erect, alert, — so full of energy of will and action, now some-
what bent, and enfeebled. Years had left their traces upon the haughty

362 DfiSDEMONA )

nobleman. At the thought, that it might be regret for Erminia, whioh
had helped to effect this change in the person of her husband, her
brother felt that he could forgive him all the pain he had caused, and
that he could now clasp his hand in friendship and fellowship. Ho
resolved in his heart, that he would ere long do this ; that he would seek
Brabantio in his own house, and for his own sake, as he had formerly
shunned the house on his account. He would be friends with that man
who had loved Erminia faithfully ; and would mourn her with him in
kindness and sincere affection. Henceforth, they should be brothers.

There was another motive too, that drew Gratiano's heart towards
him. Beside the magnifico sat a young lady of exquisite beauty, who, he
felt could be no other than Ermiuia's child, — that same babe whose birth
be had witnessed, whose first breath had been drawn amid so much of
anxiety and agitation.

How strange it seemed, that the little infant he remembered, and
that beauteous maid before him, were one and the same being ; and yet
how ineffably precious was the sight of her, thus grown into such oon-
«ummate grace and loveliness. What joy it would be to know her and
to love her. for her mother's sake, and for her own.

" And that supremely beautiful creature is my niece — ^my own nieoe !'*
was the thought that continued to fill him with pride and joy as he look<
ed upon her.

^ You are fascinated, signior, by the beauty of the lady Desdemona,
signior Brabant io's daughter ;" said an elderly gentleman, who happened
to be close beside Gratiano, and observed the direction in which his
gaze was fixed. ^' She certainly looks transccndently lovely to-day in
that satin robe of virginal white, and with those orient pearls hanging
upon throat and arms not less pure in hue than themselves. I don't
wonder at your admiration ; it is shared by us all ; yoang or old, it is
just the same ; we can none of us resist the charm of her beauty. The
young fellows, of course, are all mad for her — it is the privilege of their
age to be as insane as they please on the chapter of woman's beanty
And as for us old fellows — but I beg pardon, signior ; I ought not, per-
haps, to rank you among the grey-beards."

THE MAOMIFICO'S CHILD. 368

" And jet the grizzled hue of mine, bespeaks me far Dn my way
towards a claim to the honor ;" remarked Oratiano with a smile ; and
touching his chin, as he spoke.

'* Well then, signior, since you allow yourself to be a candidate for
those dubious delights, the respects and dignities of age — ah, one hour
of disregarded youth, is, I fear, in truth, worth the whole of their glory I
— but, since you allow yourself to be no longer young, we may cry
cousinship in regret, and condole with each other on being beyond the
hope of swelling the train of the lady Desdemona's admirers."

" Nay, admirers, even adorers, we may be, though at humble and
age-stricken distance ;" answered Gratiano, humouring the old gentle-
man's playfulness ; " but as to wooers or suitors, many reasons would
prevent our aspiring to swell her train of those, I fancy. Her father's
pride of birth, for instance, would be one serious obstacle, doubtless, to
a poor sailor like myself, who has nothing but his oflScer's pay, and his
good sword, to entitle him even to approach the magnifico and his
daughter."

" ' Her father's pride V 0, ay, signior Brabantio has pride, assured-
ly ; he has already refused many worthy gentlemen his daughter's hand,
on the score of lacking blood worthy to mingle with his. There is poor
signior Koderigo ; that lackadaisical-looking gentleman, yonder, in the
pale blue doublet, with the huge roses in his shoes ; him, I mean, with
the small eyes close together, and the sandy eye-lashes and beard ; well,
he, poor gentleman, is past cure in love with the lady Desdemona ; and
no longer ago than last week, it is said, her father forbade him the
house, because he had the audacity to make proposals of marriage to the
magnifico's daughter, in despite of the sinister bend in his escutcheon ;
but, in my opinion, he has one far graver objection than his mean birth
— he has a mean soul — a poor, silly, worthless, characterless character ;
and that alone ought to preclude his wooing and winning such a creature as
the beauteous Desdemona, who is as good and high-minded as she is fair.

'^ And does she herself appear to favor any among this large train of
jrhich you speak ? Is it said that she has yet shown a preference for
any suitor above the rest ?" itsked Gratiano.

364 DESDEMONA ;

'^ On the contrary, she seems averse from marriage, and has eB00iir<
aged no one of the numerous gentlemen who have hitherto paid their
addresses. Her father does not urge her to select a husband ; ^nd no
wonder he is not in a hurry to part with his only child. — and such a
child. But I have my own private reasons for believing." continued the
old gentleman, with that confidential lowering of the voice, peculiar to
persons of his gossiping predilection, '* that signior Brabantio secretly
cherishes a wish of eventually bringing about a match, between his
daughter and her cousin, signior Ludovico ; that handsome cavalier,
there, speaking to the lady in the green mantle, with the diamonds and
emeralds among her hair, and the snowy plume. It is whispered, that
that very lady would give the worth of every jewel she possesses, twenty
times told, could she hope to win his love to herself ; but I rather think,
neither the wealth and passion of the lady Ginevra, nor the beauty and
excellence of the lady Dcsdcmona, will ever tempt signior Ludovico to
fall in love with the one or the other. He is too intensely conscious of
his own merits, ever to affection any body half so well as his own sweet
person ; too cold-blooded and cautious, ever to commit the indiscretion
of seeking his happiness at the hands of any one, save from his all-suffi-
cing self"

'^But see, there is a stir among the group yonder;" said the old
gentleman, interrupting himself, to note what was passing. ^^ The duke
16 presenting the general to some of his particular friends among the
magnates of the state. Now he approaches signior Brabantio, and
introduces the valiant Moor to him, and to his fair daughter. With
what a modest sweetness she curtsies. No wonder the general looks
upon her with such eyes of admiration. I told you so ; we all do ;—
young or old — soldier or civilian — native or foreigner — fair or dark-
it's all one ; and the Moor, for all his swarthy cheek, and his warlike
visage, — that has seen many a stormy year of siege and bloodshed,
I take it — hath yet a fire in his gaze that shows neither years nor wars
have blinded him to the beauties of a fair Venetian lady, when she
stands before him in her full perfection, as she now does in the person
of the divine Desdemona. See sir, I beseech you," went on the old

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD. 3d5

gcDtlemau, " with what a winning grace «he stands by her father's side,
the unconscious mark of every eye-shot, the theme of every tongue, the
observed and admired of all beholders; yet how serene, how self possess*
ed, in her gentle innocence and unconsciousiless she remains ; the
general seems addressing some words of courtesy to her ; and mark
how lady-like her ease, how maidenly her attitude, as she listens. She
is the magnifico's child in her gracious air of beauty and dignity, while
she might be a cotter's daughter for the meek propriety, the adorable
gentleness, which, above all else, distinguishes her. You will smile at
my raptures, signior ; but in truth, the lady Desdemona is worthy of all
enthusiasm."

'* I doubt it not, believe me, signior;" replied Gratiano; "it needs but
look upon her to read the simple justice of your words, however high
their extolment. The lady is indeed a rare creature."

And once more he repeated within himself — "and she is my niece —
Erminia's child — my own niece !"

His eagerness to claim affinity with her, however, yielded to his dis-
inclination to do it on so public an occasion as the present. He resolved
to content himself with gazing upon her from a distance, as a stranger,
for to-day; but on the morrow he promised himself, he would indemnify
his patience under the delay, by seeking her and her father so early
and so quietly, as should ensure to their meeting all the affectionate-
unreserve of privacy,

But tha'' same night, some hours after the entertainment was over^
Gratiano, unable to sleep, in the interest of the anticipation, and wake-
ful with many conflicting emotions of remembrance and present fancy,
went out alone upon the lagunes, that the calm of the waters^ the cool
breeze of night, the placid light of the moon, might help to tranquilize
his mood of thought. On returning to the city, at a late hour, as he
passed through one of the smaller canals, a boat approached his own ;
four men, armed and masked, leaped out upon him, and before he was
aware of their purpose, mastered him, bound, gagged, and blindfolded
him, and then forced him into their boat, which they proceeded to push
in silence from the spot. Not many minutes elasped before the motion

366 IIESDEMONA ;

of the vessel ceased, and then Oratiano found that they were leading him
forwards. But when he was guided to the edge of the boat, and forced
to get out, instead of having to mount the steps of a landing-place, he
felt that he was conducted down some stairs ; and, from this circum-
stance, as well as from the peculiar damp, oppressive, earthy smell of
the air he breathed, he gathered that he was entering some subterranean
passage. Then he heard the application of a key — the withdrawing of
bolts — the grating of a heavy door, through which he seemed to pass ;
then came a silent unbinding of his arms ; and then, the withdrawal of
the bandage from his eyes : but he could sec none the better for this ;
all was pitch dark; there was the breathing of the men near him — there
were their hands busy about him. unfastening the ligatures from his
arms, and the folds from his eyes: but he could distinguish nothing else
through the gloom and silence. The moment the gag was removed from
his mouth, he burst into a torrent of qucstiops ; but amid the unbroken
stillness which was the sole answer he received, his own voice sounded
strangely ; the echos of its abrupt vehemence rang out, then died away,
as he felt the men withdraw from around him, and then heard the
re-closing of the heavy grating door, succeeded by the turning of the
key, and drawing of the bolts once again, which told him he was now
alone.

Thus suddenly and inexplicably deprived of his liberty, plunged into
a dark and solitary dungeon, the whole seemed one of those perplexing
dreams that oppress us with a sense of bewilderment and unreality even
while enacting them in sleep ; but from such dreams morning awakening
relieves us, while in this one, there was throughout a palpability, a force
of circumstance, that pressed upon Gratiano but too strongly all along
that it was fact and no vision, strange as it seemed.

The stories he had heard, of men mysteriously made away with, for
a whim of state policy ; the secret system of the Venetian tribunal the
dark deeds which it was whispered the irresponsibility of the senate's
despotism suffered itself to use — with the weal of Venice as its avowed
object ; all now came into Oratiano's mind, and he could scarcely donhl
but he was one of these same victims to the authorized tyranny, whiob

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD. 867

made siDister aocusation and arrest, summary condemnation and execu
tion, a right of rule.

'^ And am I indeed destined to behold never 'again the light of the
sun, the face of my fellow-man, the glories of earth and sky and sea ?
Never more to draw the breath of freedom ? Am I indeed to be cut ofl
thus in the midst of life? To be snatched from existence ; thrust apart
to linger in daily death ; or perchance, to be led forthwith across that
fatal bridge, where the breath of doomed wretches has exhaled in anguish
so profound, as to have eternized a name of sighs and misery ; and then,
the dark cell, the midnight strangling, the sack dragged forth through
the low portal, the plunge into the funereal waters. And this fate — is
it indeed to be mine ?"

Such were involuntarily some of the suggestions that presented them-
selves to Gratiano's mind, as he revolved the sudden change that had
come upon him. A few hours since, a guest at the feast where all the
most illustrious and renowned among his countrymen were convened ; a
free wanderer on the broad waters of his birth-place, unimpeded, un-
challenged, at liberty to go whithersoever he might think fit ; and now,
what a contrast ! Immured in a dungeon, left in unexplained silence
and darkness, exposed to an indefinite period of captivity, or to possible
death.

While these bitter thoughts succeeded, in wearing, ceaseless, circle,
and with all that harassing activity of recurrence which it is impossible
to resist under like emergencies of sudden and inexplicable event, Gra-
tiano heard a bolt drawn back, as if by a stealthy hand ; then another ;
then the key tried, and unlocked ; then the door pushed slowly open ;
and then in the space it left, stood a figure he well knew.

He recognized it instantly, though it was revealed only by the light
of a small lamp, carried in the hand.

It was the lady in black. She was closely masked, and the folds of
her veil fell thick and shroudingly round her figure, as usual. She spoke
no word, but beckoned ; signing Gratiano to follow her forth. He lost
no time in obeying ; and was about to utter some eager question, when
she enjoined silence by placing her finger on her lip. They were no

368 desdemona ;

sooner on the outside of the door, than the lady turned to replaoe tbc
fastenings ; but Gratiano hastened to relieve her from the office, by clos-
ing the massive door, turning the key, and drawing the bolts upon his
own empty dungeon. This done, his guide led the way along a gallery,
in which Gratiano could perceive several other doors like the one which
formed the entrance to the cell he had so lately quitted ; by which ho
supposed they were passing through the access to a range of dungeons.
But he had not opportunity for much observation, for his conductress
glided along with a swift though noiseless foot, and he soon found him-
self at the end of the subterranean passage, where a small door led them
through into a labyrinth of arches, which seemed to form the foundation
of some large hall, or chamber, above Soon, they came to a winding
stone-staircase, up which the lady led the way. On reaching the sum-
mit, they emerged into another long passage, which had also several doors
leading from it.

Here, there was sufficient glimmer of breaking light from the ap-
proaching dawn, or rather from closing night, to make its way through
some high-grated windows ; which the lady perceiving, she extinguished
the lamp she carried, and proceeded by such twilight help, as seemed
radiant, compared with the subterranean gloom they had left, — ^more
especially to the vision of a man who had well-nigh lost hope of ever
again beholding the light of day.

Presently, there was the sound of a footstep; it seemed approach-
ing, and the lady suddenly turned, threw open one of the side doors,
drawing Gratiano silently with her into the room to which it opened.
She listened : the step came clanking along the passage, as if it were
that of an armed man ; passed the door, went on, and was soon lost in
the distance. During these few minutes of suspense, Gratiano had time
to cast his eyes round the room in which they had taken refuge ; but he
perceived that it was an ordinary looking chamber, small, little fumisb-
ed, and apparently but little used.

Then the lady opened the door of the apartment, and said in a whis-
pered tone : — " You can proceed with safety alone, now, signior ; the end
sf this passage will take you to a large vaulted hall ; cross it ; go through

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD. 309

the opposite entrance leading into a corridor, at the termination of whicb
there is a low door leading out upon a landing-place. At the landing-
place, you will find a boat ready to convey you to a place of safety.
Farewell ! "

Gratiano would have poured forth some of the expressions of grati-
tude for her protection and aid, some of the eager enquiries he longed
to make ; but, with her finger again and yet more impressively laid upon
her lip, she murmured : — " Stay not to speak, I beseech you, signior ;
every moment increases your peril — my own. Once more, farewell."

With an earnestness not to be withstood, the lady continued to mo-
tion him forth. He could do no other than obey her ; but the instant
be stepped out into the passage, the door closing upon him, he repented
that he had not entreated two words more. He hesitated for a few
seconds ; then, yielding to an impulse he could not restrain, he deter-
mined to risk all for the satisfaction of speaking farther to her, and hastily
re-opened the door.

But the apartment was empty. No trace of the lady was to be seen ,
nor any indication of how she- had effected her egress. No door or open-
ing could he perceive of any kind, save a single window, high up, and
grated. She had vanished.

After standing a moment, amazed and disconcerted, there came to
his recollection two words of hers, which, more than anything else, made
him hasten away. She had said, " every moment increases your peril—
my own." The thought that he might injure her by remaining, induced
him, therefore, to hazard no longer stay, but at once to follow her instruc-
tions. He reached the landing-place, as she had directed, and found the
boat awaiting him. He saw, as he had half anticipated, that the boat-
man was no other than the lady's usual attendant, the lad whom he had
named her dumb slave.

There he sat, with folded arms, and fixed regard, mutely waiting ;
but on seeing Gratiano appear at the low portal, he started up, as if ex-
pecting him ; and upon his stepping into the gondola, pushed off" silent-
ly, as if in pursuit of previously-received orders. There seemed no
need of communication ; the boat proceeded steadily, with an evidenUjf

870 DESDEMONA ;

pre-appoiuted course, quite independent of anything Oratiano mighl
have to propose : and the adventure concluded with no less mystery than
had marked it from the beginning. The young boatman conveyed him
through the quiet canals. — hazy, chill, and entirely deserted at that early
hour, when night had scarcely given place to the first faint streaks of
dawn ; drew to a landing-place at one of the most retired quarters of the
city : and then stopped, as if to let step him ashore. Oratiano could not
resist the temptation of addressing a question to his singular gondolier,
before they parted ; but as he anticipated, he received no other reply
than a slight shake of the head, a shrug of the shoulders, and the con-
tinued look of patient expectation that he would land. He did so ; and
the gondola, with its silent gondolier, retreated, gliding swiftly away ;
both soon lost to sight in the grey mist of morning.

The sun arose gloriously. As its beams put to flight the darkness
of the past night, so did the thought of that interview which Gratiano
had promised himself should take place on the coming morning, displace
the recollection of the last few hours, and the events they had wit-
nessed.

His reception by Brabantio was as full of cordiality and welcome as
he could have desired ; and he soon perceived that time had done nearly
as much in softening the magnifico's manners, as it had wrought change
in his appearance. He showed an aficctiouate pleasure at beholding one
so dear to Ernlinia ; evinced regret that Gratiano had quitted them, by
the warmth with which he greeted his return ; and best proved repent-
ance for his own former conduct, by the eagerness with which he called
him brother, and pressed him henceforth to share his home.

'• I have one strong inducement to offer you, in urging this last pro-
posal ■" concluded Brabantio, as he despatched an attendant to the lady
Desdcinona's apartment, to summon her, that he might present her to
her uncle ; ^' my daughter has grown to womanhood, in goodness and
grace, worthy even of her whom we have lost; and in finding that a
father's fond partiality does not extol her beyond her desert, shall bo
your best hope of consolation for her mother's loss. Stay with na;

^JL.

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD. 371

make your happiness in her love ; let her be a child to you, no less than
to me ; let her find a second father in my brother Gratiano."

" I have already beheld your treasure, my brother :" was Oratiano'a
reply ; " I saw her with you at the duke's entertainment, yesterday, in
St. Mark's place ; and all that my eyes could inform me of her merit,
went to prove the generosity of your goodness, in permitting me a share
in the filial love of such a creature. The warmth with which I accept
the proffer of your regard and hers, may best evince my sense of its
worth."

" Come hither, jewel ;" said Brabantio to his daughter Desdemona,
as she entered. '' What wilt thou say to me, an' I give thee another
father, who will love thee scarce less fondly than my foolish old self?
What reward do I deserve for finding thy sailor-uncle for thee, and
bringing him back with a heart prepared to be well-nigh as soft and
indulgent towards thee as mine own ? We will make him so welcome
will we not, my girl, that he shall ne'er think of running away from us
agaiii. We will try and persuade him to give up a sea-faring life, and
sit down contented with us in our sea-girt city, our own swan-nest home.
Look upon this gentleman, — my brother Gratiano ; and bid thy uncle,
thy second father, welcome, Desdemona !"

His daughter advanced; the blood mantling in her cheek, as she
murmured a few words of gentle yet earnest welcome. But low as the
murmur was, gentle as were the words, — there was no mistaking that
voice. Gratiano felt that the lady in black stood before him ; that the
radiant beauty of the day before, in her virginal white and pearls, — the
lovely girl whom he now looked upon, in silken vesture of faint lilac
hue, pure and delicate, as some fresh spring flower, or a feather from
dove's wing, — and the mysterious figure, black-robed, veiled, and masked,
were one and the same person.

^^ Your uncle has the advantage of us, my girl ; he has seen us
before ; he tells me he saw us yesterday at the duke's feast. I wonder
we did not note him among the guests. The signior capitano's is no
figure to pass unobserved.''

Desdemona uttered a few words of assent to her father's compliment;

372 DE8DEM0NA ,

but she said Dothing of haying herself seen Oratiano before ; and lieE
uncle forbore making any allusion to what she evidently did not intend
mentioning. He could, however, see that she was no less aware thaD
himself of their having previously met ; for the color of her cheek varied,
and there was consciousness in her eye. To her father, her manner waa
accounted for. by the agitation of beholding, for the first time, that
sailor-uncle, whom she knew and loved only through her mother's words
of affectionate remembrance.

" But, I believe, we none of us, yesterday, had eyes and ears save for
him, our victorious general ;" continued Brabantio. ^' Beside him, others
scarce less worthy of regard, stood unobserved. He is a brave soldier,
and hath a noble manhood in his look, as well as a frank and honorable
speech that have taken me mightily. I have entreated him hither, as
often as he will pleasure me with his visits. He has promised me to
come to-morrow. Let thy ordering of the banquet for the occasion do
credit to thy housewifery and to my wish to do him honor, good my
daughter. The valiant Moor has done brave service to the Venetian
state ; and it is fitting her senators should show him all countenance and
approval/'

" My best care shall be given, to further your wish, my father;" she
answered.

'^ And while we are on the subject of household discussion, gentle
mistress," continued Brabantio, ^' see that the' green and gold suite of
apartments be appointed for the occupation of thine uncle Gratiano.
He ha« consented to grant us his society, and take up his abode here
altogether. You see, brother, I treat you with the slight ceremony be*
fitting a relation. 1 speak of housewifery concerns with my daughter,
as though you were not present. You will prove you forgive our soant
ceremonial, by treating us with as little ; and by showing that you feel
yourself as much at home with us, as we show ourselves to be with yon."

Gratiano had not long been domesticated with Brabantio and his
daughter, ere he discovered that the softening in the magnifioo's manner,
was a softening in manner only ; as long as nothing thwarted him, as
long as he had his own will uncontradicted, he was all courtesy, aflh

THE MAONIFIOO'S CHILD. 378

bility, and bland condescension ; but once cross his humour, or oppose
his wishes, and he wsm as haughty, as irascible as ever. Oratiano per-
ceived that this was the reason of his daughter's conduct. It was the
origin of her silent acquiescence in whatever her father advanced ; whether
true or not, that mattered less, than that he should remain uncontradicted.
It was the source of her omitting to mention their haying seen each other
before, when they met in Brabantio's presence, lest it should occasion
the discovery of her private expeditions ; in which, masked and veiled, she
secretly went forth to prosecute her charitable purposes, without her
father's knowledge, relying solely on their innocence, their virtuous in-
tention.

Gratiano's questions led to her candid statement, that it was because
she felt alms-giving, charitable visitation of the sick and the miserable,
and affording such help and healing as lay in her power to bestow, were
the sole sources whence she could hope to derive comfort under the af-
fliction of losing her mother, which had first induced her to try this course ;
and that it was only that she might not importune or displease her father,
that she had failed to ask his sanction to a procedure in which she could
see no harm.

Upon her uncle's pointing out how she might risk compromise of re-
putation in the pursuit of even good deeds, by disguise and privacy,
which gave them a clandestine air ; she, in her own meekness, and sweet
docility, voluntarily promised to pursue them thus no more. She said
that she would entreat her good uncle to be her almoner ; that he should
advise with her in future ; should aid her to dispense her gifts judiciously
and appropriately ; and that then, through the faithful Lancetto, thej
should be conveyed into the hands of the selected objects.

Gratiano told her how he had so frequently met and watched her ;
how he had become interested in her, little thinking the tie which really
existed between them ; how he had styled her, in thought, an Eastern
princess, bound on some strange errand, such as took the lady of old
through the streets of Bagdad ; how he had settled Lancetto to be hei
dumb slave, her faithful mute.

And then, Desdemona, amused with her ancle's story, would inter

374 DE8DEMONA )

mpi him laughingly to explain, that her attendant was not domb, Iral
deaf, though no less faithful- than any mute of Arabian story.

And then, Gratiano drew from her an explanation of that mysterioiifl
night-adventure, when she had been his protectress, and rescuer from
captivity.

He learned that she did not even know who the prisoner was. But
that one of her women had informed her of what she had overheard from
some of the retainers, about a man that was to be seized by order of
signior Brabantio. and conveyed into one of the subterranean range of
strong rooms belonging to the palace, until such time as he could be re-
moved to the state-prisons. That the girl had afterwards heard the man
telling of a mistake that had been made in the person seized ; that they
feared signior Brabantio's displeasure when he should discover their
error ; that they determined to make farther search for the right man ;
and as for the poor devil who had been caught by mistake, he might re-
main where he was, (juietly. as ho could tell no tales through stone walls,
that would reach signior Brabantio's ears. That on hearing this from
her scared damsel. Desdcmona had determined to take upon herself the
quiet evasion of the prisoner ; and that since, she had been much divert-
ed by the girl's report, of how the men had found the captive escaped,
the untouched locks and bolts on the outside of the dungeon door plain-
ly indicating that he owed his rescue to the intervention of the Madonna,
or to his own wicked dealings with the infernal powers.

*' And by what sorcery did Desdemon herself contrive to make her
escape, that night ? " said her uncle, adopting the caressing abbreviation
of her name, used by her father ; '^ my curiosity to learn more of my
swart preserver, out-weighed my discretion ; and I returned to the room,
to find her flown. But how 7 For on a nearer knowledge, I find she is
unprovided with wings, notwithstanding any other seryohio attributes
she may possess."

Desdemona explained to her uncle, that a sliding-panel gave egreaa
from the room in question.

'' In future, depute me to carry out your benevolent chivalries tor
you, Desdcmona mia ;" said her uncle. " You are not exactly the figure

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD. 376

for an amazon ; all the brazen armour in the Arsenal would not suffice
to make a knight-errant of jou ; all the black veils and plain gowns in
Venice cannot disguise that noble air of thine ; do not flatter thyself
that a mask will hide, what it has pleased Heaven to set with two such
lustrous jewels ; no, no, there's a lady-look about thee, Desdemon, that
would betray thee through russet, home-spun, and dowlas. Take my
word tor it ; best keep thou thy state, and send me of thine errands ;
thou shalt have no occasion to reproach me with lack of zeal, I warrant
thee."

Desdemona playfully consented to dub him her knight-almoner, on
condition, she said, that he would resign his commission in the navy, and
keep house with her father and herself

"With you for our housekeeper, I know not what would tempt me
abroad. It is agreed then, between us. I give up the sea ; you give
up"

" Hush ! my father comes. It is a covenant ;" said Dcsdemona,
hastily interrupting her uncle, as signior Brabantio entered the apart-
ment. bringing with him the Moorish general Othello ; who was now a
frequent visitor at the senator's palace.

The conversation fell, as was usually the case, upon the generaPs ad-
ventures ; Brabantio loving to hear him relate them, as often as he could
draw Othello upon the theme

Gratiano listened, too, with interest, to a history delivered by its own
hero, with as much modesty as eloquence ; and he thought he could per-
ceive that his niece was a no less attentive hearer than either her father
or himself. He knew that she was full of high romantic feeling, of en-
thusisam, for all her outward serenity ; he knew of what devotion, of
what magnanimity she was capable ; he knew how her soul aspired to
nobility of deed, and how it claimed affinity with virtue and heroism,
notwithstanding the feminine gentleness and maidenly reserve of her
demeanour. — her quiet look, her still motion, her soft voice, and low-
toned speech ; and, knowing all this, it did not surprise him to se€ her
greatly interested by the narrative of the warlike Othello.

She would sit at her embroidery-frame in the window, while he oon-

876 DESDEMONA ;

versed with her father and unole ; but the hitter observed, that as the
story proceeded, her needle would forget its office, and the stitch remaiD
unset, until some perilous circumstance, or hair-breadth escape were
passed ; and that then, a sigh of relief, as of long-held breath, acoom-
panied the suspended drawing through of the silk. He noticed too, thai
if anything occurred to interrupt the discourse, she would ingeniously
contrive to bring it back to the same subject ; or if. by chance,' called
forth herself, by some domestic duty, she would return in so short a
space of time, as plainly bespoke her eagerness to lose no word.

Yet notwithstanding that he discovered these tokens of the interest
which Dcsdemona took in the conversation of her father^s guest, her
uncle did not see that she showed any particular favor or attention to
that guest himself She paid the respect and courtesy due to her father's
friend, but still she behaved with more of coldness and distance, than
seemed compatible with her preference for his discourse. Grattano
would have been more at a loss to account for this inconsistency of man-
ner, had not his previous knowledge of liis niece, and of the reserve
which her father's peculiarity of temper had superinduced, helped him
to form some idea of the true cause of what he saw. He noticed that
she showed more of this retiring coldness when her father was present
than at any other time. He noticed that she was more shy, more dis-
tant, when Brabantio was by ; that she insensibly became less frank and
artless, before him ; a cloud of restraint seemed to sit more or less upon
her, then ; giving a bashful hesitation and irresoluteness to her manner,
— a want of candour and straightforwardness to her words. To have
seen her bid good morning to the Moor, when her father presented him
to her on his arrival, or say farewell on his departure, the lady might
have been thought almost to feel repugnance towards him, so shrinktnglj
and tremblingly she curtsied, so reluctantly her hand secmd to meet his;
and yet, when seated behind her father's chair, at her embroidery-frame,
there was a color in her face, an eagerness in her quivering fingers, a
warmth and glow of interest in her very silence, that told the aviditj
with which she devoured every word that was falling from the speaker's
lips.

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD 377

These eyidences of imperfect sincerity, of a want of consistent can-
dour and openness in the character of the otherwise perfect Desdemona,
gaFe her uncle inexpressible pain. He could but too well account for
them. He knew the irrational wilfulness of her father too well, to be
at a loss for their source. He saw, that the overbearing temper of Bra-
bantio had induced this undue timidity in his daughter ; had taught her
a shrinking terror of giving offence, which insensibly, and almost inevi-
tably, degenerated into dissimulation. By generous usage, by tender-
ness, by confidence, by sensible and candid treatment, the gentle Desde-
mona might have been won to extreme of openness and sincerity, — she
might have been made as perfect in ingenuousness, as, by nature, she
possessed every other qualification to form a model of womanhood. As
it was, that one fatal defect but too certainly existed.

Once, at taking leave, her timid withdrawal had been so obvious, on
the general's respectfully saluting her hand, that the moment his guest
was gone, her father rallied her upon her coyness.

" Why, I fear me, Desdemon, thou hast inherited more than a fair
share of that pride which has always been imputed as an attribute of
our house. And so, thy noble Venetian blood recoiled from granting a
favor to a barbarian, did it ? But let me tell thee, gentle mistress, for
all thy lily hand disdained to linger within that dusky palm, it is a brave
hand, a prevailing hand, one that has wielded its good sword right
valiantly in the service of thine own Venice, and therefore is deserving
of favor from all her fairest ladies. Nevertheless, I had rather see thee
over-proud than over-free to any one, my girl ; it sorts best with our
family feeling or failing, whichever they will have it to be. Brabantio's
daughter cannot hold herself too high to please her old father, — well
thou know'st that."

And thus was Desdemona's course of conduct confirmed.

Months flew by ; and still Gratiano thought he could see growing
proof of the difference he perceived in his niece's conduct to the Moor,
and her feeling towards him. There was the same outward appearance
of dread and dislike. There was marked indifference, — not to say aver-
sion,— in her manner of behaving to the general himself, and a pointed

178 DESDEMOXA ;

expression of slight and disparagement when his name was in ({nesftion
One of his favorite officers frequently brought messages to her father
and herself; and on these occasions she would make playful mockery of
the enthusiasm with which the young Florentine spoke of his nobis
commander. She would appear incredulous of Othello's claims to ths
respect and affection which his officer professed, as well as of the joang
man's professions themselves ; she would dispute the merits, and afieci
to disbelieve the regard and attachment they inspired. Tet in all this,
her uncle thought he could discern, — not only that subtilty of feminiDe
device, which will sometimes disparage the object of partiality, for the
pleasure of hearing it defended by another. — but an ostentation of dis-
like, assumed to veil an increasing secret preference.

Knowing her father's haughty ira.soibility, he dared not speak to
him on the subject, lest he should injure her with him ; and on one 80
delicate, he felt hesitation in talking to Desdcmona herself He felt
that he had been too short a time known to her as an uncle, to warrant
his interference, or to entitle him to her confidence on such a point.

One morning, when these ideas pressed upon him with unusual foree,
from noting the looks of Desdemona. as she sat listening, with scarce
a pretence of work, by her frame, in its old place, at the back of her fa-
ther's chair, flushed, breathless, and absorbed in the adventure then
narrating, Gratiano quietly withdrew, and sallied forth into the open air,
that he might take counsel with himself, what should be liis own counw,
and whether anything he could say or do, might discreetly avail.

But his self-debate, though of considerable length and eameatnefli^
ended, as all previous ones had done, in his resolving still to preserrc
silence in a matter, wherein his intervention could do no good, and
might do harm. He was accordingly returning, when, on orossing the
great square, he met the old gentleman who had made gossiping ao*
quaintance with him on the occasion of the ducal entertainment.

They saluted each other, and fell into talk.

Gratiano sought to draw it towards the subject nearest histhooghti^
— the character of the man whom he believed to have inspired so strong
an interest and regard in Desdemona ; and the gentleman easily followed
his lead.

THE MAONIFICO'S CHILD. 379

" Truly, there is but one report of our valiant general ; he has the
popular voice entirely in his favor ; and Othello is no less looked up tc
by the commonalty, than he is in high esteem with their rulers. The
Moor, during his sojourn here with us in Venice, has won all hearts ;
by his soldierly conduct, his warlike knowledge, his prudence, his main-
tenance of discipline, and the modest dignity with which he bears the
honors awarded to him."

" You speak him highly, signior ;" said Gratiano.

" Not more highly than he deserves ;" returned the old gentleman.
" To give you a convincing proof that I am sincere, I will tell you, that
notwithstanding he refused a suit, which I, and two of my friends pre-
ferred to him, in behalf of a certain officer of his, whom we thought pecu-
liarly deserving of promotion, I felt more constrained to yield him
praise, than even before his refusal. It was given with so firm, so manly
an air ; he gave us reasons for his denial, so wise, so just, so convincing,
at the same time showing us he was sorry to be compelled to deny us,
and also admitting all that we said in favor of our client, while yet he
adhered to his own grounded preference for the officer he had himself
selected for promotion to the post of lieutenant, that, as I tell you, I
admire the general more heartily than ever. Othello is a noble war-
rior ; and a just, an honorable gentleman."

'^ Then why, after all, should I fear to find that she has bestowed hei
regard upon such a man ?" mused Gratiano, after taking leave of the old
gentleman. " I believe, it is chiefly, in dread of the rage, the grief,
which would be her father's, on the discovery that his fair child had
given her heart to this Moor. And am I sure that it is so ? May not
my surmise be false — utterly baseless?"

On reaching the Brabantio palace, he learned that soon after his own
departure thence, the senator had been summoned to a council of state.

" They are alone, then ; have been alone some time ;" thought Gra-
tiano, as he approached the saloon, their usual sitting-room, where he
had left. Brabantio, his daughter, and their guest.

When he entered the apartment, however, he at first thought it
9mpty; but presently he perceived Desdemona there, alone, leaning

3S0 DESDEMONA ;

amongst the folds of a curtain that draperied the window which lod out
into a balcony over-hanging the grand canaL She was not looking forth ;
her eyes were fixed upon a curiously wrought handkerchief that she
held in her hand, and more than once pressed to her lips in a fond,
passionate manner. Her eyes gave evidence that she had been weeping;
but there was that in their expression, which told of deep-seated hap-
piness, far more eloquently than the brightest lustre that had ever
sparkled in them.

Her uncle could not bear to watch her thus unobserved ; he felt
there was a kind of treason. — involuntary though it might he, — in thus
witnessing her self-communion. He was preparing to leave the room ;
when the slight noise he made, attracted her attention, and he saw her
hastily conceal the handkerchief among the folds of her robe. Shortly
after, on some slight pretext, she herself withdrew.

Atid yet once again he saw her caress this same handkerchief She
was sitting bending over her embroidery-frame, with her back towards
him, as he entered ; and he had advanced some feet into the room, before
she heard the approaching step. Then she thrust the kerchief into the
case which held her colored silks ; but not before the curious arabesques
of the flowered border, and the strawberries spotted over the centre,
had shown her uncle, that it was the one he had before beheld.

Had he not seen this, — had he not witnessed these endearments,
lavished in secret upon a token which he could not but associate with
the Moor, as his gift, from its oriental look, and yet more from the
fondness with which Desdemona regarded it, — Gratiano would haye
been more surprised than he actually was, upon being, one night, hastily
aroused from his bed, and hearing that his brother was distracted with
the news that his child was gone ; that Desdemona had fled from her
father's house ; that it was whispered, that she had left the palace secret-
ly, with the Moorish general ; that it was reported she was married to
Othello.

All this news, disjointedly and incoherently poured into his ear, as
he hurried on his dress, seemed to reproach him with having taken part
«n her clandestine act, by preserving silence so long. He hastened to

THB MAGNIFICO'S CHILD. 88.

his brother, but found that Brabant io had already left the palace ; that
the senators were assembled in council ; that there was a talk of sudden
and warlike preparation against the Turks.

Amidst all these flying rumours, there was one that caught Oratia-
no's ear, and caused him to hasten to his old quarters at the Sagittary.
It was here that Othello, and the other military then in Venice, like-
wise were stationed ; and here it was said, that he had conveyed his
new-made wife. /

Gratiano reached the Arsenal, just as Desdemona was being con-
ducted from the Sagittary, by order of the senate, to the ducal palace
Her uncle hastened to give her the support of his presence. She
looked pale, but collected ; and as if resolved to assume her utmost
firmness.

On her entering the assembly of senators, the duke spoke ; then
her father ; and then her uncle heard her Boft voice, — ^gentle and low
but wonderfully calm, as if she willed it not to tremble. — utter thes€
nords :

'' My nooie jcUhet
I do perceive here a divided duty :
To you^ lam bounds for life^ and education ;
My life, and education, both do learn me
How to respect you ; you are the lord of duty,
lam hitherto your daughter. But her^s my husband ;
And so much duty as my mother shoved
To youj preferring you btfore her father j
So much I challenge t,hat Imayprofezt
Due to the Moor, my lordV

• ••■

What follows further of the '' downright violence and storm of tor
tunes " that befell Desdemona, is '^ trumpeted to the world " by the Poet
** I pray you, hear * him ' speak."

MFJd AND ALICE: THE MERRY MAIDS OF

WINDSOR

TALBY.

MEG AND ALICE ; THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR.

** Merrji and yet honeet too."

Tke Merry Wtvu tf Wind$or.

" Have ye heard the news, mother ?" said a girl about twelve years
old, bouncing through the open door of a cottage where sat her parents,
gaffer and gammer Quickly ; ^' have ye heard that mistress May and
mistress Gay have both been brought to bed this morning — and that
they have a goodly girl apiece ? "

" Girls ; pshaw ! " ejaculated John Quickly.

" And why shouldn't they be girls, if they like it, John ? And why
shouldn't girls be as good as boys ? " asked Gilian, his wife ; " I know
you were like one wood, when ye learned that your own children were
both wenches ; but for my part I'd never ha* changed our Nell and Poll
for any knave-beam of them all."

" In the first place, boys can work ; and girls are of no use ;" quoth
John.

^' Of no use ! Can't they be good housewives, John ? " asked his
wife

"Can be? Ay. But are they? eh? Seldom, I wot;" grumbled
John. "There's our NelL What did she do, trow? — but as soon aa
she grew to be a likely wench in her teens, wasn't she teen enough to
me ? Wasn't she always gadding about, running after the fellows, and

386 MEG AND ALICE!

never content, till she got her cousin Bob Quickly to marry her ? And
aow haven't they set off to London to get their living there ? And maeh
good I've got out of my eldest girl, haven't I ? "

*• Why, I think she's done very well, John ; she might ha* done
worse;" said the philosophic Gilian. '* She's married the lad of her
choice ; she's gone up to London, to live among ladies, if she is not a
lady herself Didn't Jem Wainrope, the waggoner, bring ns word that
they've taken a tavern in Eastcheap, and that they've called it the
Boar's Head; and that they're like to drive a thriving trade there ? **

" Ay, that's all very well for them ; but what's the good of it to me?"
growled gaffer Quickly. "^ If Nell be making her fortune as a hoatean
in London, that don't do me any service here, in Windsor, do it, wife ?"

'• Well, there's our Poll left to us, John," said gammer Quickly ; like
many another philosopher, shifting her ground, when nhe found herself
worsted in one part of the argument ; •' there's our Poll ; PU warrant
her, she'll never leave her old father and mother ; but stay and take ser-
vice in Windsor, if we get her a good place, won't ye, Polly? "

'• I'll tell ye what, wife," said John Quickly, int-errupting whateyer
reply his daughter might have been about to make ; ^' it's my notion
that our Poll is going on, much the same road that her sister Nell took.
Good housewife, quotha ? I see little of the good housewife abont her,
as yet ; nothing that'll get her a good place, or fit her for useful servioe.
I sec nought but flitting hither and thither ; gossiping with neighhonm ;
idling away her mornings ; chattering away her afternoons ; bosyhodj-
ing, prating, meddling and making in everybody's concerns. Therv
isn't a bride-ale. or a burial ; a harvest-home, or a sheep-shearing ; a
Chri.itmas revel, or I lock-holiday, that our Poll doesn't take good oare
to be among the foremost in them ; Plough- Monday, Shrove-Tuesdaj ;
Mm y -morning. Midsummer-eve ; Whitsuntide, Martlemas. Candlemas,
— nil's one to Poll : she'll take right good heed not to lose a single
chance for gosslpry, and idling of any sort ; and how's she to learn good
housewifery in all that play-making, I should like to know ? "

" Onr Poll's but young, John ;" said his wife ; " she'll be steadier lij
Dnd bye ; won'tee, Polly V

THE MERRT MAIDS OF WIND80E. 387

" To be sure, mother ;" replied the daughter. ** But you haven't
heard the best part of my news yet. Parmer Gay and Farmer May are
about to give their christenings together, that there may be a right
goodly feast, to do honor to their two little girls ; and every body's to
be bidden to't ; and there's to be such holiday doings as never were
known in Windsor before, at a farmer's table, they say."

'' I know'd it was a holiday o' some sort that had set our Poll agog
in this way ;" said gaffer Quickly.

" And so there's to be a grand feast, is there ?" added he presently.

" Ay truly, is there, father ;" said Polly ; " and you know, well Si9
I love a morris-dance, a mumming, a May-pole measure, or a game of
barley-break, where I may lighten my heels and my spirits, footing it
or sporting it away by the hour together, you are to the full as content
with a holiday that promises plenty of good fare and humming ale. I
can tell ye there's to be everything of the best and the cheerest at this
christening ; for both farmer Gay and farmer May, have so long been
hoping in vain that their dames would bring them a child, that now the
babies are born, they think they can't do enow to show their joy, and to
make all the folks in Windsor rejoice with 'em. Lord be joyful ! say
I ; and sing, * Blessed is he that has his quiver-full !' "

" The beams have been so long a coming, their fathers have haa
time to get rich meanwhile ;" grunted John. " Well for 'em I But now,
they must needs hasten to spend what they've gained, on a parcel of
feasting and foolery, to show they're better off than their neighbours.
However, I don't mind going. I ben't churlish ; I shan't refuse to go
to the christening."

" If we're asked, John ;" said his wife. " You know we ben't such
well-to-do folks as the Gays, or the Mays either."

** I know that, fast enough, wife, without your 'minding me on't ; but
that's the way with you women ; a man's never inclined to be jolly, and
sociable like, and willing to take you out for a bit of pleasure, I at
you're sure to damp him with some of your confounded meeknesses, or
prudences, or nonsenses of some kind or another, that none of us wantf
to hear."

388 MEO AND ALICE;

*^ But mayhap they will ask ns ;" said Gilian ; ^ for Poll says aL
Windsor^s to be there. Aod more nor that, Poll's main clever at
getting asked to every merry-making she has a mind to go to, and "

" And that's to every one of 'em ;" growled John.

" And so." continued his wife, regardless of the interruption, aiid
anxious to make up for the ill-timed remark which had roused her hus-
band's ungracious mood ; " and so, our Poll shall manage to get na
asked to the christening, as well as herself Step up to farmer Gkij'a
and see if they want any one to hold the baby ; or to farmer May's, and
see if they need help for Joan cook. They'll be busy enow, I'll warrant
me, at both houses, just now. to make a handy girl like you, quite a
treasure to 'em. Run, Poll."

And Poll Quickly went ; and Poll Quickly contrived so well, she
was so zealous, and so busy, and so at every body's beck and call, during
the time of preparation, when all hands were in request at the farm-
houses, that it was soon an understood thing, that her father and
mother as well as herself were to be among the guests at the christen-
ing.

For the company included almost all grades, from the substantial
yeomen. — among which class were the two hosts themselves,— -down to
the labourers and hinds that were employed on their farms. Indeed
there were not wanting, to grace the feast, personages of a still higher
rank, who vouchi^afed the honor of their presence on this festive occa-
sion. There was a neighbouring franklin or two, — wealthy country
gentlemen, who, with their wives, thought it not beneath their dignity to
appear among the train of guests assembled by such respectable towns-
men as fanner Gay and farmer May. There was the London merchant|
whose dealings for wools and fleeces brought him into communication
with farmer Gay. There was the great metropolitan corn-factor, whose
accounts for wheat and barley, and oats, and beans, were considerahle
with farmer May. There were a few smart foplings and fine city gen-
tlemen, now in attendance on the court staying at Windsor, who thought
it worth while to give the distinction of their presence, in return for
the entertainment of a rustic feast on a scale of rather unusual magni-

THE MERRT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 389

tude. There was the good curate, Sir Paul Pureton ; the worthy school
maAter, Peter Scriven ; the burly brewer, Ralph Barleybroth ; the merry
maltster, Nat Kilnby ; the roaring butcher, Dick Cleaveholiii ; the
hearty miller, Guy Netherstone ; the little barber, Will Pattt,rly ; be-
side many other townsfolk, and numerous country acquaintances for
some miles round about Windsor, together with labourers, hinds, farm
and household servants, and their respective friends and gossips, forming
a goodly company in all.

In order that fitting respect should be paid to those guests of su-
perior rank who had honored the feast by their presence, a temporary
dais was fitted up at one end of the large hall where the tables were
laid, and a cross board was spread for their especial accommodation, while
the boundary salt-cellar was placed on each of the lateral ones ; but for
the most part, ease, good-humour, frank and friendly bearing towards
each other, was the order of the day ; mutual kindliness, warmth, and
heartiness of manner prevailed. Where so much mirth and good
abounded, there seemed no room for stiffness, haughtiness, or pride ; they
seemed by general consent to be banished, and genial fellowship to be
convoked in their stead, that nothing might be wanting to the perfect
enjoyment of the whole company. The stout oak tables were far too
stout, and too English of heart, to groan beneath the burden of good
things with which they were laden ; but they well-nigh split with laugh?
ing, and cracked their sides, at the heaps of substantial dainties whichi
were piled, and close-jammed, and wedged together, with not a hair's-
breadth space between, in pitiless profusion upon their broad plane.
Dish after dish smoked upon the board ; and still dish after dish came
smoking along the hall, borne by grinning trencher-men, handed by red
cheeked damsels, and placed in endless succession upon the tables.

First came the lordly boar's head with the lemon in its mouth, racy
and piquant ; then the noble sirloin of beef garnished with boughs and
rosemary ; haunches of red and fallow deer ; sucking-pigs fed daintily
on dates and muscadine, and stuffed with rich puddings ; capons, barn*
door fowls, turkeys, geese, and boiled mallards ; a shield of brawn with
mustard ; roasted neat's tongue, and chine of beef; a goodly and chria

390 MEG AND ALICE;

tian gaDimon of bacon, that no suspicion of Jewish taint might be there
Nor was the cook's skill wanting in the various dishes of quaint devioe ;
as the red herring o' horseback, wherein her craft had shown the likenesf
of a rider galloping away through a green field, which was cunningly
represented by a corn sallad ; pies of divers kinds, as warden-pie, olive-
pie, pippin-pie, mince-pie, and baked chewets ; hog-liver puddings, veal-
toasts, carbonadoes, pamperdy, links, fritters, tansies, and quelques-eho-
ses ; jumbals, leach-lombard, custards, or dowsets ; suckets, wet and dry ;
March-pane, sugar-bread ; jellies of all colours, marmalades, and floren-
tines ; as well as juncatcs and dainty confections, spiced and richly
sweetened, of quinces, pomegranates, oranges, and other fruits, with
cream or sugar.

That all space might be given to the dishes, the various drinks were
placed on a sideboard, whence the guests were supplied with whatsoever
they might choose to call for. There were generous wines of many vin-
tages ; those quaffed plain in their native excellence, — from the foreign
luxuries of princelicst sack of Xeres, strong sacks of Canary and Mala-
ga, and rich muscadine, to the home-made delicacies of Ypocras, Clary,
and Bracket ; those concocted, to suit other palates ; some sweetened
with sugar ; some seasoned with lemon and spices; some brewed into
possets, with eggs ; the two kinds of raisin-wino, brown and white bas-
tard ; with good store of distilled liquors, such as rosa-solis, and aqua*
vitae. Ale and beer were in profusion ; from the stately March ale, to
simple small beer ; there was double beer, double-double beer, mum, and
dagger-ale ; there was the popular huffcap ale, dear to the common lip hy
such familiar titles as " mad-dog," ^- angePs food." and " dragon's-milk."
These different malt drinks were also to be found choicely compounded,
as well as the wines ; spiced, and sugared, with a toast floating, — ^warm,
and mellow, and cordial. There was not absent the favorite bowl of
spicy nut-brown ale, called Lamb's wool, with its bobbing, hissing, roast
8d crabs, or apples, and the sprig of rosemary to stir and impart a flav^
our. The fruity beverages of cider and perry were there for those who
chose them ; and though the honey-made metheglin had fallen into disre
pute, some calling it " little better than swish-swash," yet as a Welsh

THE MERRY MAIDS OP WINDSOR. 39 .

ftimilj of the name of Evans had lately come to settle at Windsor, and
were expected to be present, it was thought well to have methcglin pro-
vided, out of due regard to the well-known national predilection.

The feast was at its height ; the dishes were all set on table ; the
door that had so frequently opened and given to view the busy cook and
her helpers, the roaring fire, the laden spits, the steaming pans, the
whole paraphernalia of the glowing kitchen, was now closed ; the trench-
er-men and damsels ceased going and coming across the hall with dishes,
and confined their attention to the tables, round which they perpetually
hovered, leaning over the backs of the guests, reaching platters, hand-
ing trenchers, serving drinks ; carving, helping, pouring wine, frothing
ale ; now jesting, and laughing, with the guests, when they good-huniour-
edly addressed some facetious remark to them ; now shouting and bawl*
ing directions to each other. At its height was the jingling of glass and
china, and the clinking of silver flagons and goblets, and tankards, at
the dais-table ; at its height was the clatter of pewter platters, and dish-
es, and measures, of wooden trenchers, of beechen cups, of treen ladles,
of horn spoons, at the long tables. — especially below the salt, for noise
is inseparable from enjoyment among the less well-bred ; at its height
was the mirth and uproar of the feasters, when Poll Quickly said to her
father and mother, — or rather screamed to them, for it was as diflicult to
make a person hear amid all that riot and confusion, as the remark wat
safe from chance of reaching the ears of any one but him or her imme-
diately addressed : — •" Said I not sooth, father, when T told ye 'twould
be a brave feast ?"

" Ay, ay, brave enough ! It's well for a farmer to get on thus in the
world. Lord warrant us ! See the china dishes, and the silver goblets,
and the pewter service, that have taken the place of the treen platters
and plain gear that would ha' served an honest man's turn in my
young days, e'en at the upper end of the table ; now, they must needs
be used but by us below the salt ;" grunted John ; though he was compelled
to growl a little above his usual key that he might be heard in reply.

" 0, but most part o' they fine things, the plate, and the china, and
the glass, are borrowed from their great friends ;" said Poll Quickly ;

992 MEO AND ALICE;

adding, with all the precision of a gossip proud of the aconraoy of hei
information, '^ the parcel-gilt flagon came from Sir Mark Pursej* s ; the
six tankards from Arden Hall ; that great china charger was lent bj
lady Fragilhurst ; and the cut glass goblets, and biggest sajt-cellar by — ^*

'^ I care not whence they came, nor who lent 'em, lass '" said her
father ; ^' I can see well enow that the Gays and the Mays are rich and
well to do, setting aside the finery of the tables."

" The pewter's all theirs, I know for surely ;" persisted Poll ;
*^ dishes, platters, bowls, spoons, all the whole service, for I helped to
scour and brighten it myself; they use it every day ; the treen set, and
the horn spoons are only for the servants. But just look at mistress
Barleybroth, mother ! There's a coif and pinners ! Flanders laoe ; no
less, I'll assure you ! And see what a flaunting ship-tire Lady Pursej
wears ! Ribbons enow to stock a mercer's booth I And only see that
gaunt lad, the Welshman's son, Hugh. They say he's a parlous scholar,
and knows all sorts of Latin and Greek ; it is thought that if he goes
on as he's begun, he'll be fit to do both Sir Paul Pureton's work, and
Peter Scriven's, together, — priest and schoolmaster in one. If he's as
sprag at learning, as he is at eating, marry, I'll ensure him the place,
when time comes for the two old men to die, and leave him to stand in
their shoes. Do but look at the lumps he puts in his mouth ! It's like
loading a hayloft. There's trusses of beef and salad for you ! Mighty
diffierent to Will Patterly ! He can't eat for watching everybody else.
He keeps as fidgety a look-out as a bird pecking grain ! But he's a good
soul ; he has only one fault ; he prates too much."

At this moment, a loud voice rang thro' the hall, enjoining silenoe ;
and then the principal guest, who was one of the sponsors, arose, and
proposed a toast to the health of the two mothers. Mistress Gay and
Mistress May ; and then the other godfather arose, and proposed that
health, happiness, and long life to the two new-made christians should
next be drunk ; and then amidst the waving and doffing of hats (for it
was at that time esteemed no ill-breeding to sit covered during meal-
time) the toasts were pledged and drunk with hearty good wishes mad
much enthusiasm.

I

THE ME&RT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 39S

And then, the two babes themselves were brought in, wrapped in theii
white chrisom-cloths, looking very red-faced, and staring, as if wondering
at their baptismal honors ; and then, the twelve apostle-spoons, given tc
little Margaret Ghij by her godfather, and the four evangelist-spoons
with a silver-gilt oup, given to little Alice May by hers, were handed
round for the inspection and admiration of the company. And then,
once again, all became uproar and clamour of tongues and utensils ;
laughing and jesting, and eating and drinking, proceeded as before.

Next succeeded singing, and merry tale- telling, flirting, gossiping ;
and then the tables were cleared, that dancing and sportive games, and
all the more active species of merry-making might conclude the day. At
a late hour, well pleased, the company broke up ; and, for long after, the
christening of Margaret Gay and Alice May, was cited as one of the
most notable amongst remembered Windsor festivals.

In course of time, the red-faced, staring babies grew to be two of the
prettiest, chubbiest, rosiest children to be seen in all the country round,
for many a broad Berkshire mile. Curly-haired, bright-eyed, red -lipped
darlings they were ; and two of the merriest little grigs that ever laughed
the careless, happy, hearty laugh of childhood. In the sweet blue eyes
of Alice May, the cloudless sky of midsummer seemed reflected ; and
the transience of an April shower was all that ever sparkled on their
lashes, making them, if possible, brighter still. In Margaret Gay's clear
hazel eye, danced ever glancing light, that knew no rest or shadow, save
in sleep.

Nurtured in kindness and indulgence, free and joyous, their child-
hood years were a series of holidays, uncheckered by a single thwarting
or disturbance ; m that their native cheer of disposition grew ever in
liveliness, good-humour, and pleasantry. Their looks were beaming;
their accents were mirthful ; their gestures were all vivacity. Thej
seemed human fairies ; mortal elves of health, spirits, and frolic youth ;
fay-like, airy and buoyant in their behaviour, — of child-like substance and
proportion in their well-moulded, active, flesh-and-blood limbs. Sprites
might boast such bewitching playfulness of look and mien ; but nothing
short of beauteous childhood itself oould furnish those blue veins, that

394 ifEo AND alios;

threaded the white temples ; those fresh firm cheeks, so ronnd, so pnlpy .
that breath of a dairy, or a new-mown hay-mead ; those mottled arms,
those dimpled hands, so plump, soft, and smooth, yet so springy and
elastic beneath the pressure of touch or kiss. In sooth, they were a
couple of as bonny little creatures as could be matched in all merry
England.

Neighbours' children as they were, both of an age, both of a sex, both
of like rank in life, and both of the same merry temper, it befel, as a
matter of course, that they were constant companions, and shared tie
same plays, the same pursuits, the same thoughts, the same likings and
dislikings; they shared each other's pleasures, as they would have
shared each other's troubles, had there been any to share ; but lytherto,
joy had been their only portion ; the very crosses and vexations common
to childhood, seemed spared to them, and what might come near, their
own happy temper rendered pointless to sting their quiet.

" Alice dear, I've come to fetch ye ;" said Margaret Gay, at the gate
of farmer May's garden, one fine spring morning ; '^ Mother's lent me
two of the new dozen-bunch of horn spoons that father brought her from
the fair lately ; so let's away to the moat side, and have a good game at
making dirt-pics. I know such a brave place, where we shall be quite
snug, and find plenty of marl, with water at hand from the castle-ditch.**

It was, as Margaret had described it, an excellent spot for their pur-
pose ; lying a little out of the public path, and screened by a copse of
hazels, alders, and maple-trees. Here, they played for some time, hap-
pily enough, making between them, good store of pies ; with raised
crusts of kneaded clay, and filled with flints, and pebbles, and moss, and
grass, and twigs, to represent fish, flesh, fowl, and fruit, with condi-
ments and seasoning of salt, spices, peppers, and herbs, figured by
strewed dust and sand. '

But by-and-by, they were disturbed by the advent of Hodge Bull-
cub. the butcher's boy, who came loitering there, to wile away his time,
or rather his master's, in throwing stones into the moat, watching the
wide-spread circles they made, listening to their plunge, and trying how
far he could jerk them.

. i ^^ _■»

THE MBR&T MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 395

<^ I wish he'd go away, Meg ]" whispered Alice May ; " he splashed
OS all over ; see how wet my frock is."

" Suppose we tell him ;" replied Meg.

" I daren't ;" said Alice ; '^ he's such a great fierce lad ; perhaps ho
wouldn't like to he told to go."

Just then a great stone came plump do¥m, only a yard or two from
the hank where the two children knelt ; and, falling in shallow water,
threw up quite a fountain of splashes, which plentifully showered Meg
and Alice.

" Take care what you're about, if you please ;" said little Margaret
Gay ; " if you don't mind, some of those stones '11 hit us ; that one came
very near ; and see how it has sprinkled Alice all over."

" What do I care ?" said the lout. '' It'll make her grow ; and spare
her standing out in the next rain-shower. She's little enow to want
something that'll make her taller."

The next stone fell just in the midst of the dirt-pies, and demol-
ished a grand centre-dish of raised crust, ornamented with clay-paste
devices, that had cost much care and time.

^' Oh dear !" exclaimed the two young cooks, both at once.

^^ I wish you'd move farther away, if you must throw stones ;" added
Margaret.

'^ I shall throw 'em just where I please ; I'm not going to be ordered
off by two chits like you, don't think it ;" said Bull-cub ; " I've as good a
right to play here, I suppose, as you have. I might just as well find fault
with that rubbish you're doing there. Here, what's all this? dirt-pies?
clay-puddings? hey?" added he, coming towards the spot where they
were, and kicking contemptuously with his hob-nailed shoes, among the
pastry-marvels they had achieved with so much pains.

^ 0 don't, don't ; you're breaking my goose-pie ; and that's Meg's
herring-pie ; and — oh dear, don't spoil that — that's our warden-pie." Alioe
started up, and threw herself against Boll-cub, in her eagerness to stay
him from destroying their morning's work; but the great strong lad held
her at arm's length, contriving to kick down the pies one after the other,
I pushing their ruins into the moat with his foot, and laughing at the an-

896 MEO AND ALICE;

ger and entreaties of tbe two children, though little Meg dealt him M
lusty cuffs as she could with her baby arm.

In the struggle to effect his wanton exercise of power, the bmtal hob-
bcdehoy leaned so heavily oyer towards little Alice, that she lost her
balance, slipped down the shelving ground, and fell into the water, which.
however, was luckily but shallow just there. Margaret screamed alond,
ceased thumping Bull-cub, who ran off, — and was about to dart to Alice's
assistance, when she saw two boys she knew well, neighbours' sons, com-
ing towards the spot. She just shouted to them, " Hodge Bull-cub has
pushed Alice May into the castle-ditch," and then flew down the bank to
help her friend.

'^ I see him, the rascal, making off among the trees ;" said one of the
boys ; '' but V\\ soon be up with him, and give him as sound a thrashing
as ever he had in his life."

" Do, Frank, and I'll help the girls ;" said the other boy ; ^ the wa-
ter isn't deep here ; I'll soon have her out."

But long before this speech was finished, Frank had sprung after the
butcher's boy to execute his well-deserved sentence.

The other boy found the two little girls hand-in-hand ; one close by the
edge, trying to tug her out of the water, in which the latter stood, up to
her waist ; having fortunately fallen in such a position, that she ooald
readily scamblc to her feet, though she could not draw them from the
muddy bottom in which they stuck.

^^ Give me your other hand, Alice May," said the boy, seeing how
matters stood ; ^^ now then, pull away, heartily, Margaret, and we'll soon
have her out."

But not so soon, could they succeed in extricating her; first one foaS|
then the other, stuck fast, then she slipped down on her knee, and boom
went she into the water again.

" Can't you contrive to slip your feet out of your shoes ? never mind
your shoes ! leave them stuck fast, so that we get you out !" said the boy.

'^ 0, I've long ago lost my shoes ;" said she laughing ; " Stay ; now I
think IVe got my right foot clear. Now, pull !'*

^ Well, make a good stride, and plant your foot on the firmest plaoe

THE MEURT ICAIDS OF WINDSOR. 397

fOQ oan find ; here, here's a gravelly spot ! Now then, hold tight ! Grasp
our hands well I Haul away, Margaret ! Here she is ! Safe ashore !"

Alice once landed, they all three made the hest of their way to
farmer May's, that Alice might be put into a warm bed without delay ;
and then mistress May made little Meg hasten home, that she might
change her clothes, which were very wet, too ; and then the boy, thanked
and lauded by both families, for the help he had given their darlings in
their need, went to look after his companion, whom he had left in pursuit
of Bull-cub.

He found him just emerging from the copse, ooking hot and flnslTed,
but victorious ; though the butcher-boy was half again as big as himself

•^ I've given the hawbuck such a drubbing as I think he won't forget
in a hurry," said Frank ; " he can bluster enough to little girls, but he
can only blubber and yelp, like a cur as he is, when he has to deal with
boys. I left him howling, as our hound does at the moon ; and with
great big tears rolling down his nose. But how did you get on, George,
with the girls — the two children ?"

'' I found them laughing as heartily, as your lout was crying," said
George ; " they're two merry-hearted little souls — nothing puts them
out — not even a souse in the castle-ditch."

" Did they both tumble in?" said Frank.

" No, only one ;" said George ; " but there they both were, roaring
a-laughing — the one pulling, the other being pulled — both dripping wet,
and bespattered with mud — but laughing fit to kill themselves at the
pickle they were in. Little Alice, with her bright flaxen hair all blown
off her face, and showing her pearly rows of teeth between those coral
lips of hers, looked like a young mermaid, as she stood giggling, and
struggling, and slipping about, waist-deep in water. Tou should have
seen her — and how heartily Meg was helping her, with all her littk
might, laughing as much as pulling. Tou should have seen them ("

'' I wish I had !" said Frank. ^ I wish I had'nt run after that chap,
but had stayed with you to help Meg and Alice ; I half envy you your
?hare of the adventure."

'< Tou need'nt ; yours was by far the most glorious ;" retnmod

898 MEO AND ALICE ;

George ; ^ you pursued the brute of a giaut, and overoame him ; I hadnl
even the merit of succouring the distressed damsels, — for thej weren't
at all distressed. You had the peril of the fight — I hadn't that of the
flood — it was only mud. It's evident, that they also thought yoa hmd
chosen the worst job, for little Alice popped her head out of the bed-
clothes, as her mother was tucking her up, to bid me mind and thank
Frank Ford for going after Bull-cub to teach him better manners, as she wms
sure he would now be afraid to meddle with or worry them any more."

" She's a good little soul — as gentle as she's gay ;" said Frank ;
" that's certain."

Some time after that, an opportunity occurred for Frank's being as
oompletel}' the hero of an adventure where one of those little girls was
concerned, as he himself could have desired. It happened, that Alioe
May was going to gather king-cups in Datchet mead, and she as usual
went to fetch her little neighbour and playmate to go with her ; but it
60 fell out, that Margaret Oay was wanted at the farm, that morning, by
her mother, who was busy making cowslip wine, and had sot her little
girl to pluck the yellow blossoms out of their pale green cups. Alice
would have stayed with Meg, to help her in her pretty fragrant task, but
her friend whispered her .to go and gather the king-cups all the same,
and that she'd get leave to come in the afternoon and help to make them
up in posies and garlands, as first intended. Alice accordingly took her
basket again, and trudged ofif to the field, where she was soon up to her
ohin in butter-cups, daisies, meadow-sweet, eye-bright, ragged-robbins, and
tall waving grasses, flowery and feathery in all their lush vernal blos>
soming. She was so busily engaged cropping armfuls of the gay wild-
flowers, and heaping them into her basket, hoping to get it quickly filled,
and return to help Meg, that she was not aware of a wizened little old
woman who stood close by, watching her. But presently the shadow
cast upon the shining grass, caught the child's attention, and she sud-
denly looked up, and saw two grey watery eyes fixed upon her ; a pair
of wrinkled cheeks, which sank and distended ; shrivelled lips, that
mumped, and parted, and quivered ; and a withered hand stretched forth
booking like a bird's claw — so skinny, so ash-coloured, and so drj.

TUB MBR&Y MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 399

The child's head iDvolantarily shrank from the talons with whioh
this claw was appropriately garnished ; and the old woman said : —

^^ What pretty golden hair youVe got I It's as bright as your king-
cups I Will ye give me a lock, my pretty dear ?"

The claw fumbled in a pouch, from which it presently drew forth
some glittering instrument

*' I would, and welcome," said Alice ; '^ but father don't like to have
my hair cut — he says he likes to look at it, and can't spare a bit oft
Meg told me she heard him say he was very proud of his little Alice's
long locks. So, please, don't touch it."

The claw was just about to dart out, and make another clutch ; but
at that moment. — shrilly whistling as he came along the path that lay
not far from the spot where Alice and the old woman stood, — Hodge
Bull-cub appeared in sight. The butcher's boy paused an instant, gap-
ing and staring across the tall grass, to make out who formed the group
he saw ; but apparently soon satisfied, he gave a short laugh, resumed
his piercing whistle, and saun^red on.

" It's too nigh the public way, here ;" muttered the crone ; then,
aloud, she said : — " I've got something brave to show ye, my dear, at my
house, if you'll come there — it's not far off — only down by the forest-edge,
close to the blasted thorn-tree; come, I'll lead ye there in three minutes."

^^ I can't come now, for I promised to take Meg these flowers, and
we're going to make posies together ; but perhaps this evening, — ^what's
the brave thing you've got to show me ?" said the child.

^' A string of amber beads, as bright and pretty as your hair, my
dear ; you shall have 'em for a necklace, if you'll come with me." And
the shrunk lips puckered and mumped, and the grey eye twinkled.

^^ I should like to see them, but " — and little Alice looked round in
perplexity ; then joyfully added ; — ^ O, there's Frank Ford coming, he'll
carry home my basket for me, I know, and then I can go with you
Frank ! Frank ! "

The little girl ran towards him, as she saw him leap over the little
stile into the field where she was; and hastily telling him what she
wished him to do, and where she was going, she put the basket in hit

400 MBO AND alicb;

hands, and begged him to give it safely into Margaret Oay's keepiBgri
with the assurance that she herself would soon be with her. Then sha
hurried back to the old woman, who had followed her brisk movementi
with some anxiety lest she should not return ; but who now, beckoning
Alice to follow, took her way through the grass into the lane which led
to the forest.

For some time they walked thus, the old woman leading the waj
through the least-frequented paths and bye-ways ; all the time talking
in a shrill gasping voice, that whistled through her few teeth, like wind
through a key-hole, telling the child of the beautiful things and the
nice sweeties she had got in her house for her.

As they reached the skirts of the forest, they came to a wooden nni,
all grown about with lichens, and mosses, and brambles. It had but one
window and a door. This latter, the old woman opened with a key she
took from her pouch ; and when she had unlocked it, she drew forth the
key, and took it inside with them ; entering with little Alice, fastening
the door again, and putting the key into her pocket.

The child noticed nothing of all this, so eager was she to see the fine
things she had heard of; and said : — ^^ Well, where are the amber beads,
goody ? And the sugar-sticks, and the "

" Oh, they're all in that cupboard, my dear ;" said the crone ; ^ bat
first, I'm going to tell you how kind I mean to be. How shonld you
like to live here always with me, hey, my dear ?"

'< Nof at all ;" said Alice ; ^^ I like to live with father and mother,
and near to Meg."

"Well then, I'm going to be so kind as to let you go home to them,
when you've given me your hair, little flaxen-poll ;" said the old womaii
with a grin.

" But I told you, I couldn't give you my hair," said Alice ; ** father
likes it."

" How should you like to take off that pretty kirtle, and let me haTa
it to make a hood with ; hey, my dear ?"

" Not at all ;" said Alice ; " I can't spare it.'

^ Well then ; I'm going to be so kind as to let yon keep it 111111

THE MERBT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 401

ingt^ad of baying it to cover my grej hairs with, after you've let me
ent off your golden ones, little fair-locks ;" said the crone, hideously
jocular as before.

^* But I'm not going to let you ;" said Alice stoutly ; <' I told you so
before."

'' A'n't ye, though ? We'll soon see that ;" said the old woman,
clutching Alice's shoulder in her claw, which closed upon it, like an
eagle's, and drawing her between her knees as she sat, held her fast
prisoner.

Alice shrieked aloud.

" If you give such another yell as that, you young imp, x'U jab these
scissors into your eye, or thrust 'em down your throat, or stick 'em in
your heart, instead of clipping your hair with 'em, as I'm so kind as only
to be going to do ;" said the crone ; " so you'd best be quiet, I advise
ye ; and its very kind of me to advise you, when I might kill ye, if I
chose it. So d'ye mind, let's have no more screeching, but stand quiet
while I cut "

Here, just as the old woman brandished her weapon, and was about
to 8^0r the first lock of the spoil she so gloatingly coveted, her raised
hand was suddenly suspended by a loud knock, as of a cudgel on the
door of the hut. The old woman gasped a deep curse ; her knees re-
lazed an instant, in her surprise, and Alice sprang from between them,
uttering shriek upon shriek.

At that moment, the casement of the single low window was flung
back, and Frank Ford, cudgel in hand, leaped into the room.

" What are ye doing to hurt little Alice May ?" said the boy, con-
fronting the old woman, and placing the child behind him.

^^ I was doing nothing to hurt her, young master ;" said the crone,
c'imping and grinning in her former coaxing fashion ; '< I was going to
be very kind to her."

" Kind ! " exclaimed Alice.

<* Kind ! " echoed Frank, with flashing eyea. ^ What made her scream;
tVn? Odd sort of kindness, to make her scream !"

*'' How can I help a child's whims, that screeches if you're trying ifi

402 MEG AND ALICE;

be kind ? That won t let yon be kind, try as hard as yon will 7 ThatV
odd if you please ! " said the old crone. '^ And if yon come to tliat. how
dare you break into my house, you young whipper-snapper, laying about
you with your cudgel, rapping and rending, tearing and driving, ham-
mering my doors down, dashing my windows in, and frightening •
poor old woman out of her wits ? Pack ! Tramp ! Begone with ye f
Out of my house, this instant, both of you !"

So saying, she hobbled to the door, unlocked it, flung it wide open,
and before Frank and Alice had recovered their amazement ;.t her wild
manner, now whining and cringing, now violent and angry, they found
themselves out in the forest, thrust forth, by those withered hands that
shook with age and passion.

Frank looked at Alice ; Alice looked at him, and then burst out
a-laughing.

^' I'm glad to see you laugh ;" he said ; '^ I thought you were fright-
ened."

*' So I was ; " said she.

^^ You screamed like a caught hare ; and you were all of a tremble,
when I got into the room ; " said Frank ; " yet youVe laughing now."

" I was frightened enough then, while she'd got me in one hand, and
the scissors in the other, telling me she'd poke 'em in my eye, if I didn't
stand still ;" said Alice ; ^^ but now I can't help laughing to think of her
pushing us out of the house, as if it was any punishment to be turned
out ! Why, all I wanted, was to get away. "

*' Or I either ;" said Frank ; " though, — talking of punishment— I
should like to have her punished ; and I hope I shall, too. I'll speak to
father about it. directly I get home. But how came you to go with her
at all. Alice ?"

Little Alice told him exactly how all had happened ; and then asked
him how it was that he came to be at the hut, also.

" When you left me with the basket," replied he, " I turned baok to
take it, as you asked me, to Margaret Gay ; and had got some way aorom
the fields to Windsor, when I thought to ask myself the question wci
was the old woman I had left you with. I remembered that I had z^v^r

THE BTERRT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 40S

seen her before — that she seemed a perfect stranger hereabouts — that the
place you told me you were going to, with her, didn't bear a very good
name — for the hut has been said to harbour gypsies, deer-stealers, and
jther such vagabonds, upon occasion. Then it suddenly came into my
head that the old woman herself, had not the most pleasant of looks :
and then I thought of what you had said about her promising you some
beads, or something ; and thereupon I bethought me of what I had heard
tsll of wicked creatures luring fair-haired children into bye-places, that
they might rob them of what would prove golden booty in supplying the
court-rage for yellow locks. In short, I couldn't help working myself
into a belief that you had fallen into just such hands ; so, cutting my-
self a good ash stick out of the hedge, in which I had carefully stowed
away your basket of flowers, that we might find it all safe, on our way
back, I set off as fast as I could in pursuit of you and the old woman,
and arrived just in time, to save your little flaxen head from her clut-
ches. It would have been a pity, a lambkin like you, should have been
shorn by such a scraggy old vulture as that ! "

<^ Father will thank you for saving his lamb's golden fleece, as I
thank you for saving my eye, or my throat, perhaps both, from her scis-
sors ;" said little Alice ; " it was very kind, and very bold of you, Frank,
to venture for me. "

When Frank's father, and farmer May, and some of their men, went
to the hut on the skirts of the forest, in search of the old hag, they
found the place deserted; not a trace of the old woman, or of any one
else, was there ; nor was she ever afterwards seen in that part of the
country.

Master Ford, Frank's father, was a thriving lawyer at Windsor. He
made round sums and put them by carefully ; so that he grew to be very
rich ; and men said he deserved his gains, for they were made not only
cleverly, but honestly. He would settle his neighbours' disputes a^,
equitably and as speedily as might be, and he as often did this by per
suading them not to go to law, as by conducting their cause in court.
He made up nearly as many quarrels as any single man of his crafr
usually busies himself in fomenting ; and he made pretty nigh as mnch

404 MEG AND ALICE;

money by amicable adjustment and private umpirage, as other attomejn
by bickering and equivocating, brow-beating witnesses, ferreting out
flaws, and bringing about unjust verdicts.

He had four sons, all of whom he hoped to provide for, by settling
them worthily and prosperously in life. Three of them he meant should
learn a trade each ; but his eldest boy, Frank, in whom he thought he
perceived a promise of good parts, and a capability of superior breeding,
he resolved should have the advantage of a university education, that he
might be fitted for following his own profession, or any other he might
prefer.

Master Page, George's father, was a substantial yeoman ; he was
farmer or bailiff, to Sir Marmaduke Ducandrake, who owned the finest
estate thereabouts. He was a large burly man, with a ruddy complex-
ion, that bespoke a hearty appetite, a warm purse, and constant living in
the open air. It was wliispered that he was worth a mint of nioney, and
that he could have bought his employer over and over again ; for Sir
Marmaduke was an extravagant courtier, a spendthrift and a gambler ;
one who thought nothing of investing all the fleeces of a sheep-shearing
in a court-suit, of wasting a quarter's rents on a court-masque, or of stak-
ing a whole copse of oaks upon a card at primero. When the fleeces.
the rents, or the oaks had to bo suddenly converted into ready moneji
Master Page was the alchemist to transmute them ; it was his gold
which supplied the courtier's need ; and it may be believed that the cru-
oible, his pocket, did not yield its treasure without contriving to retain
a due — or more than a due residuum of the material employed.

As Sir Marmadukc's property waned, Master Page's store waxed £iit
and increased. The knight's patrimony dwindled ; while the yeoman's
farm swelled into a goodly bulk of acres. The two men's persons were
like their land. The one was a pale, lean, stick of a man — ^with hollow
eyes, wan cheeks, and enervated limbs, telling a plain tale of squandered
energies, sleepless nights, drowsy days, — life wasted in folly and de
bauchcry. The other was a hale, robust, portly man, with a trunk Uke
an oak. an arm like a stafif ; a step firm and steady, the eye of a hawk,
the grip of a vice, and a oliest as ample as his barns and granaries, wkik
the purse at his girdle was as well filled as they.

THE MERRT UAIDB OF WINDSOR. 405

Master Page was no less able than his neighbour Master Ford tc
have sent his son to the university; but the worthy agriculturist, like
many of his class, had slight respect for book-husbandry, and resolved
that George should be nothing more nor less than a farmer, like his fa-
ther before him.

" My boy shall know how to stock land, plant trees, cart a crop, till
a field, and reap a corn-harvest, with the veriest ploughman that ever
trod a furrow," said he, once, to his neighbour Ford ; '' and that's the
way, I take it, to raise as fine a fortune as over's to be digged out of the
pages of Virgil — for all he wrote a fine book upon farming, as I've heard
tell."

Frank Ford was not a little proud of the distinction conferred by
his father's determination to send him to college. He felt that he was
at once raised to a higher grade in society by this circumstance, for it
was a mode of education chiefly confined to the sons of noblemen, and
gentlemen, or those of very wealthy parents.

His young Windsor friends thought he gave himself airs upon it,
and that he treated them a little cavalierly, when he returned home for
the vacations ; but George Page, who was of a frank, open disposition,
and rarely suspected anything amiss in his associates, — ^giving them cre-
dit for being as guileless and well-meaning as himself, — maintained that
Frank was the same good fellow as ever.

Not so, Margaret Gay and Alice May. — ^who now growing to be tall
girls, yet lost no jot of their merry-hearted sprightly humour, — thought
their former playmate had no right to assume the tone of superiority,
which they chose to discover in him. They persisted in calling his in-
creased height and growth, stateliness ; his more thoughtful look, con-
tempt for their ignorance, and his gravity, sheer insult. He, in turn,
complained that they were altered ; that they no longer received him so
cordially as they formerly did; that they excluded him from their
games ; and treated him stiffly, and as a comparative stranger, when
they met.

^^ You are no longer the same girls ; you are quite changed ; " said
he to them one evening, when they all chanced to meet in the wood,
a-nutting ; "you don't seem glad to see me back ; you don't shake hands

406 MEO AND ALICE;

with me as yoa used. Tou wouldn't treat George Page bo, if he went
to college, and came home to spend the vacation."

** Nang-nang-yah ! " said Meg, mocking his tones of injured in-
nocence, and making a face at him. ^* He thinks himself very grand,
foretooth, because he's been at college ; and that he's at liberty now, to
school us as much as he thinks fit, since he's taken a degree in univenitj
birch. Many's the time he's had that honor, I'll be bound, though not
oftener than such a scholar deserved. But we don't care for his fine
tutoring, do we, Alice ? " said she, bursting out a-laughing.

" No, to be sure ! *' said Alice, laughing too ; but her echo of her
friend's laugh was rather a faint one ; for she half pitied Frank, as he
stood there, disconcerted, biting his lips, and eyeing his two langhing
enemies, as if he longed to cuff them, but couldn't, for manliness sake.
Besides, she was a little touched by remembering how he had more than
once stood her friend in those former times to which he referred.

" And he must needs twit poor George, too ; " continued Meg ;
^^ because, forsooth, he doesn't go to the university as well as the young
sqnire."

'* I never twitted George ; " said Frank Ford.

" Didn't you ? " said Meg. " What did you mean, then, by bringing
him in, when you said we wouldn't have treated him so, if he had been
to college, and come back ? Unless it is that you're such a jealous-
pate that you grudge him our liking, which he has never done anything

to lose."

»

'• And pray what have I done to lose it, pretty Mistress Meg 9 "
said Frank.

" What have you done ? Why a great deal,— everything I AVt
you now acting the young man, and the collegian, truly, with usf
Calling us * pretty,' and * mistress,' as if you were a grown man, and we,
poor little chits. Marry, I shouldn't wonder, if you had impudenoe
enough to teach us Greek and Latin, only to show off what you've
learnt. As if nothing was to be learnt any where else but at college f
However, whatever they may teach there, they don't teach modesty and
pleasant manners that's a sure thing. And another sure thing iS;

THE ME&&T BfAmS OF WINDSOR. 407

that, whatever folks learn there, they don't learn to make themselves
agreeable."

Tossing her head, she turned away ; while Frank mattered, " And
stay-at-home wenches learn to be pert, if they remain as ignorant as
sheep, in all besides.''

^^ There ! there's one of your fine college words I " she exclaimed,
over-hearing him, and looking back. ^' There i you call us ' wenches '—
your old friends and neighbours, Alice and Meg ! We changed — ^we
altered ! 'Tis you that are grown out of knowledge, master Frank.
But we'll try and remember you, won't we, Alice ? We'll not forget
you ! We'll match you, some day or other, for your grand airs, depend
on't. The ' wenches ' won't break their hearts about it, I dare say, for
all you are so changed."

With another laugh, — ^tho' there was a spice of vexation in it, that
marred its heartiness, — Meg went away, linking her arm in Alice's,
and drawing her with her, notwithstanding all George Page could say to
induce them to stay, and to make peace with Frank Ford.

'^ I've no patience with him, I declare I " muttered Margaret Gay,
as she walked on hurriedly ; '' A puffed-up jackanapes ! A conceited
puppy ! To give himself such airs ! ' Wenches,' forsooth ! "

'' I'm afraid we provoked him to that, Meg I " observed Alice, as she
tried to keep pace with her angry friend.

"And I suppose George Page provoked my lord squire, too?"
pouted Meg. " He must be sneered at, also, by this fine college princox,
this musty-brained, book-worming sprig of scholarship, must he ? But I'll
be even with him, see if I don't ! I'll fit him for books, I warrant you !
I'll sauce him with doggrel, that shall be tougher to puzzle out, than all
his trumpery Homer and stuff; which, I'll be bound to say, he prates of
more than he knows."

" How you rave, Meg ! " said Alice, smiling

" I'll not rave more than I'll brave ; " said Meg. " I'm determined
I'll plague him for his boy-pedantry, — ridiculous in a young fellow like
him. with scarce more down on his lip, than you or I have. Let me see ;
let me see ; I'll get Hugh Evans, the young Welshman, to write out mj

408 MEO AND ALICE j

Boript for me — and I'll get Poll Quickly to bear it Yet stay, that wont
do either — he knows her, and will suspect something — maybe, quefltkni
her; and her magpie tongue will blab all out. No, no, Pll trust no
one but myself. Let me see ; let me see." .

Next evening, as Frank Ford was sauntering down a close lane, that
was thick embowered with hedge-rows of hawthorn, dog-rose, briony,
and brambles, with many a peeping fox-glove, harebell, and cowslip
beneath, and many a fair young towering oak above ; suddenly there
dropped at his feet a green ball, of moss, grass, and twigs, curiously
enmeshed and intertwined, that looked like two birds' nests joined
together.

Frank picked it up. '^ A fairy-favor I" he exclaimed half-aload ; but
looking, as he spoke, among the branches overhead, and through the
hedge that skirted the lane, to see what mortal hand had thrown it there.
But no mortal was to be seen ; no living thing seemed there, but the
birds that were carolling their even-song upon branch and bough ; some
kine that were softly lowing in a neighbouring meadow, waiting to be
milked, and some sheep and lambs baaing fold-ward.

Frank Ford began mechanically to untwist some of the fibres of
grass and withy, that compacted the ball ; and, to his surprise, perceived
that it contained a scrap of parchment, upon which were inscribed odd
crooked characters, which after some careful decyphering, he found to
run thus : —

If you*d find a marv'llous treasure,
Book of lore and 'Wondrous pleasure ;
By to-morrow*8 earliest sij;ht»
In Windsor Park by cock-crow light,
Beneath the moss-grown beech's root,
(Mark'd with crosses three its bark,)
Firm of heart, of hand, of foot,
Dig from sunrise until dark.

<< Pshaw 1 " said Frank ; '' how should this be ? A book ; buriei
beneath a tree I Are there indeed such ^iry-gifts 1 Knowledge is

THE IfGRET MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 409

gained by, toil — its treasures lie hidden— 4iDd are only to be brought tc
light by research. May such things be ? Our Windsor Park is said to
be the haunt of beings more than mortal If such a book is there in
truth, 'twere well worth the digging for."

At night, when he laid his head upon the pillow, his last thought
was : — " What if I were to go there, and see the place ? No harm in
that. I'll sleep upon it."

He woke before the dawn. '' I'll go look for the tree, at all erents,
and see whether it bear the three crosses." He arose ; but before he
left home, he took a spade from an out-house. He shouldered it, and
thought : — ^" Nobody will know of my folly, even if I should have the
folly to put so much faith in this scroll, as to use my spade." Passing
master Page's farm in his way to the forest, he encountered George, who
was up, with his father, looking after the men, and setting them to work.

'^ Is that you, Frank ?" said Oeorge, coming through the gate of the
farm-yard to meet his friend ; '' whither away so early 7 I thought you'd
Deen more of a student — and loved better to pore o'nights over black and
white, than to get up o'mornings to see the sun rise."

^^ Hush ! never mind ; now you have seen me, come with me, if you
will ;" said Frank ; '' I've got something in hand, that I care not should
be talked of by thy father's hinds, and so, get over half Windsor. If I
play the fool, let my chum only, know my folly."

He walked on, saying no word more. When he reached the forest, he
plunged into the thick of the trees, and still walked on.

" What seek you ? A coney, a hare, or a squirrel ?" said George
Page laughing, and striding after Frank. ^^ Or is it a buck-royal that
you have come hither to knock o'the head with that spade, and so bring
me with ye to bear part of the blame of deer-stealing ? "

^^ Pr'ythee, peace ;" said Frank, peering about among the boles of
the trees.

They had reached a tangled thicket, or dell ; far and wide reputed as
a fairy- haunt. In the midst stood a venerable moss-grown beeoh-troe,
hollow with age, and but few leaves left flattering on its rugged arms

410 MEO AND alicb;

The rising sun seuv fts penetrating beams thr^ngh the neighboaring
oaks, and elms, and beeches ; and, as the stream of light fell on thii
centre grand old tree, three crosses were distinctly visible, earred upon
its smooth trunk.

'< By the mass, there they are I" exclaimed Frank.

'^ What, are where ?" said Qeorge, amazed at his friend's excited
nanner.

For all answer, Frank pointed to the three marks ; throst the bit of
parchment into George's hand ; hastily threw off his doublet ; and b^;Mi
digging vigorously.

Oeorge examined the queer characters of the script ; spelt them over
ftnd over ; and then said : — ^'^ I'm no great scholar, but I can make
enough out, to find that you're digging in hope of a promised book."

^^ Just that ;" said Frank, lustily continuing his labour, though it mmde
the beads stand upon his brow.

<^ You're less accustomed to handle a spade than a pen, Ford ;" said
George ; ^* give it to me, and let's see how many spits I can heave to jcmr
one."

Frank Ford was about to yield the spade ; when he suddenly re-
sumed plying it, as eagerly as before.

'^ Laugh at me if you will ;" said he ; " but I'm determined to omtj
out this adventure myself; who knows but the charm consists in being
worked out by him alone, who's destined to find the book?"

A very soft titter, — scarce more than the twitter of a young bird|
might have been heard at this moment ; but it was unheeded by either
Frank or George.

'' Tou have faith in the charm, then ?" said George ; ^ I thought
you book-men held fairies and fairy-gifts to be little better than old
wives' tales."

" I hardly know what I believe— or what I doubt ;" said Frank ; " the
more we scholars learn, the less we rely upon our own wits. We get
awed by the store of knowledge there is to acquire, which makes eeoh
step we advance seem but a plunge into fresh difficulties ; the light be-
fore us serves but to show us the darkness through which we hare

^ ?

THE MEE&T MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 411

passed, ana oasts into shadow even our actual path. However that maj
be, I'm resolved in this search I'm about, to win through with it, e'en if
I dig here till set of sun."

The soft titter trilled forth once more ; while Frank continued to
throw out spadeful after spadeful of earth from the hole, — ^which was
by this time pretty deep, — as if he had been tossing linen out of a
basket ; for, sooth to say, he was more impetuous than skilful, as a hus-
bandman.

George Page stood watching him ; turning over the bit of parch-
ment betwixt his own fingers, and considering. Suddenly he said :^
^ Frank, what's the day of the month 1"

^^ I know not, — ^neither do I care, I was going to add ;" said Frank
Ford hastily, digging away as strenuously as ever.

^* But it may make some difference in your charm, you know ;" said
George, slily. " I do believe, it's the first day of April I"

The spade dropped from Frank Ford's hand ; he stood aghast, up to
his knees in the hole he had dug ; while there was an uncontrollable
burst of tittering, as if a whole brood of young birds were clamouring in
their nest for food.

George Page put his finger on his lip, as he looked at his friend, and
then stepped close to the hollow trunk of the beech-tree.

^' I've found the fairies," cried he, peeping in, and discovering, — as
he expected, — the crouching forms, and laughing faces of the two merry
maidens, Meg and Alice ; " but since they've been pleased to play their
elvish tricks upon us, we'll not let them vanish without paying the pen-
alty. They shan't creep forth from their hiding-place without giving us
a kiss a-piece ; shall they, Frank?"

" A kiss is the least I deserve for my hard digging," said Frank
Ford, leaping out of the pit, and placing himself beside George to pre-
vent the escape of their rogues of prisoners.

^' Lot's promise the kiss a-pieoe, and trust to our fingers for ridding
us, by the exchange of a box o' the ear each ;" whispered Alice to Meg
^^ Come, come ; let us out I" she added aloud.

'* Well then, you promise?" said the two youths.

412 MEO AND AlAOK]

" Yefl, yes ; we promise, of course f said the girls ; but the instaiit
they had both got clear of the hollow tree, they took to their heels, and
would have scampered off scot-free ; had not Frank and Oeorge, — half
prepared for such an attempted cheat, — caught them before thej had
run many paces. Then a scuffle ensued, such as the priie in question
generally brings about between rustic lads and lasses. There was mnoh
struggling, and cuffing, and bending of waists, and bobbing of heads, on
the part of the girls, to avoid the clasping arms, and adventurous lipe
that sought a victory.

George Page succeeded in snatching a transient touch of Meg's soft
mouth, amid a storm of writhings and pushings, and thumpings ; while
Frank Ford obtained a passing sweep athwart Alice's rosy lips, that was
scarce more than smoothing the silk of an electric machine, amidst a
perfect hurricane of poutings, and slappings, and twistingn, and twinings,
of her pretty little body to and fro within his arms.

" He's so strong, I've no patience with him ;" she exclaimed, as she
burst away from his embrace ; but it was only to fall into the equally
potent one of George Page, who stood on the watch for her, as he lot
Meg go.

Frank Ford was not quite so alert as his friend, so that Margaret
Gay had time to dart off, before he could seiie her in his tnm.
This annoyed him ; and he said testily, — as the girls disappeared ; " So
T've punished only one, after all I " I wonder which it was of them
that sent me the fairy-favour, to make an April-fool of me I I wish I
knew."

"• Forget and forgive ! " said George. '^ Besides, I shouldn't like to
have my kisses taken for punishment, if I were you."

'* Why, what would you have 'em taken for ? I suppose yon'ye the
modesty ^o think the girls take yours for blessings, master George t "
said Frank.

'- Well, I've a notion that Margaret Gay didn't loathe it, for all aha
cuffed me so heartily : it's proper to struggle, yon know, Frank ; they
all think so, bless 'em ; " said George, laughing.

THE MEKKY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 413

" And pray how did Alice May take your worship's salute ? Did
she seem to think it an infliction, or a privilege ? — but the latter no
doubt ; " said Frank, with a tinge of bitterness in his voice.

'* I didn't so much notice what she seemed to think ; " said George.

" Now, is that careless tone of his, put on, I wonder ? " thought
Frank Ford. '* The touch of Alice's lip is not to be thought of with such
indifference as that ! Impossible ! Not natural I He but affects not
to care for it I " For another moment his thoughts ran on upon the
merits of the lip in question ; then he said aloud : — ^^I don't know what
business you had to kiss Alice May at all, for my part ! "

George Page laughed ; " Only as much business as you had ; we
both kissed her for pleasure, not for business, I believe. At least, I did."

'' You had a kiss of both the girls ; I had one only of Alice. I
shan't rest contented till I get one of Meg, also ; " said Frank.

" Tell her so ; " said George ; " and if she's the girl I take her for,
she'll give you one of her own accord, to show that she bears no malice.
In that case, you'll come best off, after all ; for, to my thinking, one
willing kiss is worth a dozen forced ones, any day ! "

The next time the young people all met, Margaret Gay proved that
George Page's estimate of her character was a true one. She had
already U rgiven, and nearly forgotten, Frank's pedantic airs ; besides,
her befooling him in the forest, — although the tables were partly turned
upon herself there, — ^had sufficiently avenged the playmates' cause upou
the young collegian ; and they were all once more upon their old
friendly footing together.

Therefore, when George Page said : — ^ Here's Frank Ford cannot rest
contented till he's even with you for your April-mom jest, Meg ; so gtre
him a kiss for peace' sake ; and then you may give me one for — ^foi^—
liking' sake, if you will ; " Meg gave a blushing laugh, but held out her
plump fresh cheek to Frank, giving him her hand heartily at the same
time.

" Well f " said George.

'' Well ? " echoed she.

4 14 MEG AND ALICE;

" Vm waiting for mine ;" he said.

^' You don't think I'm going to offer it, do you, Mr. Impudence 1 '

" Then I may take it ? "

^' Take care, I don't take something else, then. I may take yoa m
box of the ear, saying, * take that for thy pains,' if you do."

^^ I'll run the risk ;" he said, catching her in his arms.

<^ Stay ! If you snatch it, how will it be given ? I thought yon
asked for a given one, — one to be given ' for liking' sake ; ' pray, how
have you deserved such a one ? "

" By liking thee, Meg ; " he replied. " In good sadness,— or rather,
in sober verity,— or rather, by this good light, — which is the gay ^ight in
thine eyes, Meg. — I like thee right well ; which, I take it, is a (kir title
to a kiss upon liking, in return."

" He's meddling with your father's vocation, Frank; talking me out
of my senses, like a lawyer;" said Meg, turning towards him, after yield-
ing to George's wish with a maidenly colour in her cheek, yet with the
unaffected cordiality and frankness belonging to her disposition.

But Frank had been for some moments talking earnestly to Alice,
which prevented his observing what Me^ said.

" And now, come, all of you, to father's ;" said George Page ; " he
bade me bring as many of the lads and lasses of Windsor, as I could
muster, this evening, to our old barn ; where we're to have an ESaster*
tide dance and supper. So you, Frank, take Meg and Alice there, while
I go beat up for more guests, who have heels as light as their hearts.
We'll have a merry night on't !"

During that evening's revels, the young scholar, Frank Ford, attached
himself almost wholly to the side of Alice May. When the coloured
eggs, proper to this holiday season, were handed round, he presented
her with some as a keepsake ; he secured her as his partner in well-nigh
every measure they danced ; he ministered to her plate at supper, he
pledged her in the foaming nut-brown ale ; he drank out of the glaM
from which she had sipped ; and while showing her all these attentiouB,
he found himself thinking of the sweet fairy-favour he had won fnim thai

THE MERRT MAmS OF WINDSOR. 415

rosy lip of here, in the early April morning among the old park treeji.
He thought how bright and sparkling, yet how tender, was ber blue eye.
He thought how gay and merry-hearted she was, yet how gentle and
modest. He thought how gracefully agile her steps were in the dance,
yet how seemly her behaviour ; how lively her manners, yet how musi-
cally soft her laugh and her voice. " She has the blithe humour of the
simple country-girl, with the refined look and air of a high-bred maiden ;"
thought he ; " she might have been born a lady, and would do honor to
the choice of a gentleman. What a wife she will make for a man of taste
and breeding, in a few years' time!"

Each succeeding vacation, thoughts such as these floated through the
mind of the young collegian, when he returned home to Windsor, and
encountered his old playmates, Alice May and Margaret Gay ; and each
time, these thoughts recurred with added strength, and assumed a more
definite purpose.

" I will tell her my thoughts, the next time I return home, which
will be for good and all f he resolved, when he went back to college for
the last time. " I will tell her what I think of her, and learn whether
she judges me as favourably."

Meanwhile, George Page had been indulging somewhat similar rumi-
nations with regard to Margaret Gay. " What a frank, free-hearted
creature she is !" thought he. *• What a good-humoured, comely face, she
has ! What an even temper, what a pleasant look, what a joyous laugh !
The sound of it's enough to set a man's heart dancing for an hour after ;
the glance of her eye, to mak< him sing or whistle as he walks ; the sight
of her face, to fill him with glad thoughts for a whole day. Her voice is
like the carol of a thrush on a may-bough, or the ousel after rain ; her
speech is like the bubbling of a water-brook in summer-time, sweet, liquid,
and welcome ; her smile is like an opening rose, and her looks are like the
morning. What a happy husband she would make of him she might
love ! What a cheerful hopeful companion, what a true friend would he
have in such a wife !"

His fancy was amusing itself with just Buoh thoughtB as these. on€

4 14 MEn AND Alice;

'* Tin w:iitini; tor iiiiiio .*' lu* said.

■• Ymi iUni'i think Iin ptinj; to offer it, do you, Mr. ImpudenoeS *

■• Thru I may taki- it / '

" T:ik(! c.-irr. 1 i\nut t:iki- .sitincthing else, thon. I nia\' take yon i
box lit' thi' rar. .sayiiiLT. * tak«' that for tliy pains,' if you do "

" I'll run the ri>k :" hi' said, oatohin^ her in his arms.

*-Stay I It" VMM snatch it. liow will it Ihi piven? I thought yon
nHktd fur a ;:ivi«n otn*.— mn' to }«» given 'for liking' sake;' pray, how
have ynu iI'-sitvi-j! sin-li a one/ '*

•• JJy likiiiL' thre. Mf^ : ■' lie replied. *• In pond sadness, or rather,

in Holier v«rity. — or rath«'r. liy tliis p)od liffht, — which is the gay Jght in
tliiiii' eyi's. Wi'is. — I like thee rijrht well ; which. I take it. is a fair title
to a ki>s MjMiii likiiiir. in return."

•■ lies nifihllinL' with ynr father's vocation. Frank; talking me oat
of my >«'n>«'s. liki- a lawyer;" said Me;r. turning towards him, after yield-
inir tn (ienrL"'s wish with :i maidtMily cohmr in her check, yet with the
nnaflcetcd eimliality and frauknes.s lielonpn^ to her disposition.

Kilt Frank iiad lie(>n for s<ime moments talking earnestly to AIIm,
whieh pn-viMitrd ills ol»servin«: what Mej: said.

•• .\nil now. I'ome. all of you, to father's;" said George Page; "he
hade nn' l»rin<r ns many of tiie huls and lasses of Windsor, as J could
muster. thi< evfuiiiL'. to <»ur f»M harn : where we're to have an Easter
tideilancf anil supper. So you. Frank, take Meg and Alice there, while
I pi heat up for mon> piests. who have heels as light as their hearts.
W<''II havr a inenv niirht on't !"

I)uriiiL' that ivenin^rs revels, the young scholar. Frank Ford, attached
himself almost wholly to the side of Alice May. When the coloured
c;;;rs. i^ropcr to this holiday season, were handed round, he presented
her with some as a keepsaki^ ; he secured her as his partner in wcU-nigh
crery measure they danced ; he ministered to her plate at supper, he
pl(Ml<red her in tin; fonminjj; nut-hrown ale : he drank out of the glasi
from which sh(> had si))]ied ; and while showing her all these attcntioui,
bo found himself thinking of the sweet fairy-favour he had won from tbsl

THE MER&T MAIIM OF WINJ80E. 417

know theyVe thinking of something, and a pretty something — an eye,
or a lip, it may be ; or of somebody, and a pretty somebody. Well, Heaven
made us all I But some are fashioned comely, and some are fashioned
ugly ; some are fashioned goodly, and some badly."

^^ True enough ;" said Oeorge Page.

^Ay, in truth, it is true enough ;" said she ; " and PU hold your
worship a silver-white shilling, that I know who your worship deems the
goodliest-fashioned, the comeliest-featured, and all-tonothing prettiest
girl in broad Windsor, though it's a broad town and a wide town, and a
fair town : but be it as broad as a bean, or a Windsor bean, too, yet I
wot well who master Page thinks the fairest maid there.''

" Go to, thou prat'st ;" said he.

" Prate or not prate," retorted she, " I'll hold my own, that young
mistress Gay is worth any man's liking ; she's a wife for a king if he
fancied her, for she's notable and saving, — a right thrifty housewife ;
she's a wife for the proudest lord at court, for she's frank-spoken and
open ; she's a wife for a farmer, for she's pretty and merry ; nay, for the
matter o' that, she's a wife for a poor man, if she chose to have him, for
she has good looks and gay spirits enough to console him for a scanty
table and a starving hearth."

^ She has your liking at any rate, mistress Poll ;" said George Page,
smiling.

'" She has my good liking, and she shall have my good word., too,
whenever she asks it, master Page ;" said she ; '' I can see, as you can
see, tiiat she has a hazel eye, a ripe lip, a slender waist, and a trim
ankle ; but I know moreover, that she's as good a housewife as ever a
wife in Windsor ; though so young a maid. She has all the gifts of a
notable housewife ; she's as neat as a bride, in her garments ; she has a
quick eye, a curious nose, a careful taste, and a ready ear ; she's neither
buttcr-finger'd, sweet-tooth'd, nor faint-hearted, so that she'll let nothing
fall that should be held fast, she'll waste nothing that should be used or
Rtored, nor will she lose time with over-niceness. I tell you. master
Page, she'd make a wife for a prince, or for the prince of young farmerSj

416 MEO AND alicb;

lummer evening, when he met Poll Quickly, who, like all people of her
busy-bodying nature, made friends with every one, and forced every dim
to be friends with her.

^' Give you good even, master Page ;" she said, dropping the young
man a curtsey as she passed. Then, lingering on her way, to aait her
pace to the sauntjering one he was taking, she added : — ^' And how's thm
worthy gentleman, your father? Stout and hearty, I hope ; may Heaven
in its mercy, be long before it calls him to a better place than this wicked
world, I pray."

" My father was never better ;" said George Page ; '^ I thank 700,
good mistress Polly."

^^ Long may he continue so ; and may he never be worse than betteri
till it please Heaven to bid him to its best ;" said she. ^ But how is it,
that so comely a young man as his son, is walking abroad by himself?
When there's not a maid in all Windsor but would bear him oompanji
as welcome as the flowers in May, did she but know he was so lonely."

'^ Lonely, but not sadly, mistress Poll ;" answered he. ^ Though e
pretty maiden's talk is pleasant company, to be sure, yet a man can wmlk
alone, and yet contrive to entertain himself, I trow."

'' And that he may ;" replied Poll Quickly ; " speciously when ha enn
make his thoughts of the pretty maid keep him company, if he can't have
herself by his side. I know what I know ; but ail's one for that."

" Why, what dost thou know, good Mistress Poll 7 "

'^ Nay, nay, I warrant me, you think, master Page, that a miil-siz-
pence will cover all I know about your worship's fancy for a certain well-
looked farmer's daughter that shall be named no names ;" said she, nod-
ding her head waggishly ; ^' but as sure as a hare's foot is good for the
cramp, I can tell who was she that sat in master Page's thought, when I
came up with him, just now."

'^ How know you that I was thinking at all ? " said Page, laughing.

'^ Troth, master Page, I know well enough, that when young men
walk alone in the fields, their arms folded, their eye on the ground, theii
itep slow, and their breathing quick, they're not thinking of nothing ; 1

THE ME&&T MAIDe OF WINJ80E. 417

know they're thinking of something, and a pretty something — an eye,
or a lip, it may be ; or of somebody, and a pretty somebody. Well, Heaven
made us all ! But some are fashioned oomely, and some are fashioned
ugly ; some are fashioned goodly, and some badly."

^^ True enough ;" said Oeorge Page.

''Ay, in truth, it is true enough ;" said she ; '' and I'll hold your
worship a silver-whit« shilling, that I know who your worship deems the
goodliest-fashioned, the comeliest-featured, and all-tonothing prettiest
girl in broad Windsor, though it's a broad town and a wide town, and a
fair town : but be it as broad as a bean, or a Windsor bean, too, yet I
wot well who master Page thinks the fairest maid there."

" Go to, thou prat'st ;" said he.

" Prate or not prate," retorted she, " I'll hold my own, that young
mistress Gay is worth any man's liking ; she's a wife for a king if he
fancied her, for she's notable and saying, — a right thrifty housewife ;
she's a wife for the proudest lord at court, for she's frank-spoken and
open ; she's a wife for a farmer, for she's pretty and merry ; nay, for the
matter o' that, she's a wife for a poor man, if she chose to have him, for
she has good looks and gay spirits enough to console him for a scanty
table and a starving hearth."

'^ She has your liking at any rate, mistress Poll ;" said George Page,
smiling.

^' She has my good liking, and she shall have my good word, too,
whenever she asks it, master Page ;" said she ; '' I can see, as you can
see, tliat she has a hazel eye, a ripe lip, a slender waist, and a trim
ankle ; but I know moreover, that she's as good a housewife as ever a
wife in Windsor ; though so young a maid. She has all the gifts of a
notable housewife ; she's as neat as a bride, in her garments ; she has a
quick eye, a curious nose, a careful taste, and a ready ear ; she's neither
buttcr-finger'd, sweet-tooth'd, nor faint-hearted, so that she'll let nothing
fall that should be held fast, she'll waste nothing that should be used or
stored, nor will she lose time with over-niceness. I tell you. master
Page, slie'd make a wife for a prince, or for the prince of young farmerSj

418 MEG AND ALICE;

which, sooth to say, well I know who is." And Poll Qaicklj ended haf
speech with a meaning look towards him, to mark her concluding words.

^^ Is not mistress Alice May all this, to the full as worthily as young
mistress Gay ?" said Page, maliciously, that he might mislead her, and
make her think she had lavished her match-making praise on the wrong
person.

Poll Quickly was so taken aback by this idea, that she could not
immediately rally ; but presently she stammered : — '" Surely she Ib !
Never a maid in Windsor is a sweeter girl, or a more prudent housewifei
than young mistress Alice."

" Saving mistress Margaret ;" said Page, drily.

" Ay. saving her ;" assented Poll Quickly ; '• yet mistress AUce is
a rare pickler and preserver ; and so indeed is mistress Margaret 8aoh
cowslip wine as she makes ! And yet mistress Alice hath the lighter hand
at a crust for a venison-pasty ; but few can equal mistress Margaret at
tansy-cakes ; and then what skill hath mistress Alice in veal-toasts and
kickshaws. They'd make your mouth water only to see 'em in a dream.
Sooth to say, I cannot tell which maiden is the better gifted in house-
wifery, or the worthier to have a comely young farmer for a husband ;
but they'll botli make passing good wives — above all, young mistress"—
here sh« glanced vainly into Page's face ; which, affording no glimmering
ray of intelligence to guide her, she stumbled on blindly, and ended with
a vague sound of 'ay, to which he might prefix either G or ilf, as might
best please himself

*^ In short, she's as expert in cookery and household matters, as she's
charming in person;" said George Page.

" Troth, master Page, you never said a truer word ; and so yon
shall find, when you've made her your wife."

'' Made whom my wife ? " said he, slily and suddenly.

" Young mistress 'ay ;" answered Poll Quickly, with the same dii-
biousness of pronunciation in the commencing consonant ; ^^ Ah, jonll
be a happy man. master Page ; truly, you have an eye to choose m
sweetheart, and wit to choose a wife ; both of which I wish you joy o^

TUE MERRT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 419

in young mistress 'ay. And though I wouldn't be bold to remind yoii
of the wager between us, yet you'll own I've fairly won it ; have I not,
master Page ? The silver-white shilling is honestly mine."

" You shall have the shilling, fairly won, or no ; " said George Page
laughing ; '^ there it is for thee ; thy praise of both the merry maids
is honestly worth it, — at all events, to my ear, for I love them both,
dearly."

" Marry ; Heaven forbid ! You can have but one of them to wife,
remember, master Page ; " said the startled Poll Quickly.

'• Rest you content, mistress Poll ; " said Page, smiling. " I love
my pretty neiglibours in all honesty of liking ; they have both been my
playmates from boyhood ; I've a right to say I love them dearly, and I
do love them dearly — ' speciously ' one of them," he added to him&\.lf,
mimicking Poll's word.

'^ I'll commend your worship to them, and tell them so, the first time
I see them again ; " said Poll Quickly, dropping her parting curtsey.

" Do so, mistress Polly ; and good evening to you ; " said he.

" Grood evening, and good night ; and pleasant dreams of young
mistress 'ay, I wish you from my heart, master Page. And may her
pretty face, which I see at this moment " — here Poll Quickly's mental
vision gave her a confused dual portrait of Meg and Alice's two sets of
features blended in inextricable cross-lines and hues — " may it smile
near your pillow while you sleep, as clear as I behold it before me now,
I pray Heaven."

Whilst this conversation between George Page and Poll Quickly
was taking place in the fields, Meg and Alice were chatting together
over their spinning-wheels, which they had brought out into the porch
of farmer Gay's house, that they might enjoy the sunny afternoon in
the open air.

" Tell me, Meg, is -this true, I hear that mistress Barley-broth
asked your good mother whether she thought you could love her son
Ambrose ; and that honest Ralph Barley-broth told your father he
hoped he'd not refuse hia boy such a good wife as his daughter would
make ? "

420 MEG AND aliob;

^ Yes, yes, it's trae enough ; " said Margaret Qnj, laughing ; ^ tnM
enough that yonng master Ambrose was too sheepish to ooart Ibr
himself, and so got his father and mother to get him a wife reftdj*
wooed."

" Then you wouldn't have him? " said Alioe.

^ Have him ? What should I do with him, when I had him ? Set
him to mind father's geese ? — or to hold my distaff? But even these
offices, I fear me, would prove beyond him. A young fellow that hasn't
courage to look a girl in the face, or wit to tell her his liking, would let
the geese stray, and the flax tangle."

" Poor Ambrose ! " laughed Alioe.

^ Cast not thy pity away upon a sheep, any more than thy pearls,—
had'sf thou a string of *em, — before swine ; " said Meg ; " take my word
for it, master Ambrose Barley-broth is not so tender a lambkin that
he'll break his heart upon the stony cruelty of mine. He*ll get his
good parents to carry his bleatings to some other damsel, who will he
content to listen to them at second-hand ; and then he'll think her
fairer and comelicr than ever he fancied me."

*' Like enough ; " said Alice ; '^ a shame-fbced suitor sees most
beauty in her who smiles on his suit with least suing. But see who
comes here ! That tattling gossip. Poll Quickly."

<' Her tattle is harmless, and her gossip is amusing ; " said Meg ;
let's hear what news she has."

'^ A fair evening, and a many of 'em, to the two merry maidens of
Windsor ; " said Poll, approaching the porch ; ^' the wheel flies swift
and the yarn lengthens, when spinning is done out of doors such evenings
as these, and by such fingers |is those."

^ Hast thou been among the courtiers, up at the castle, good mistress
Poll, that thou hast learnt such flattering words ? " asked Alice.

'^ Nay, I flatter not ; I but repeat what others say, when I svonoh
that the two merry maids have fingers both nimble and fair ; " said PolL
" And as for gill-flirting among the courtiers up yonder, I detest, as I'm
an honest maid, I'm above such doings. No, all can be said of PoU

THE MSRBT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 421

Quickly is, that she minds her modest oalling of bar-maid, and does its
duties soberly, I thank Heaven for it"

^ Thou still keep'st thy place at the Star Inn, then ?" said Margaret
Gay.

" Ay, that I do, i'faith ;" replied Poll ; " though hard's the softest
words I have there, and heavy's the lightest work I have. Lord knows !
Up with the lark, and down with the lamb, is my latest lying-abed, I'll
warrant ye. At work by cook-crow, and only half done by the time the
chickens go to roost, is my daily labour. A bar-maid at the Star has
her hands full, I can tell ye ; and the place isn't a bed stuffed with pul-
let-down."

" Why do you stay in it, then, mistress Poll ? Why not try and get
another and a better place ? " said Alica

'^ So I would, and so I mean, if I can get some good soul to help me
to a better ; " returned Poll Quickly. '^ They do say, that there's a ran-
tipole young man coming over here from Staines to set up a new hos-
telry ; and if so, the old Star may go whistle for custom ; in which case,
I leave, depend on't. "

"• Bats quit falling houses they say ;" whispered Alice to her friend ;
^^ and here's a mouse that won't stay, where there are no crumbs to be
nibbled."

'^ And who do you think I've just parted with, in the fields, yonder ?"
said Poll Quickly, who had crossed her arms leisurely on the top of the
wicket-gate, a few paces from the porch where Meg and Alice sat, and
had evidently taken up her position for a lounging talk ; '* I'll give it ye
in ten, I'll give it ye in twenty — though two you'll not guess, ore you
hit upon's name, I warrant me. Well, Heaven be praised, young men
will be comely, and young women will have eyes ; and so for the matter
of that, have young farmers ; and a keen eye, and a handsome eye he
has, and a roguish eye for a pretty girl, I'll be his surety."

" Of whom art thou talking ? " said Margaret.

'^ Lord, lord ! to see how crafty-modest young maidens can be ! " ex*
elaimed Poll ; ^ As if, for sooth, you didn't know, both of ye, as pat at

122 ifEO AND alios;

a pancake to Shrove Tuesday, or a coloured egg to Easter, that the yoang
farmer I'm telling you of, is none other than master George Page."

" And what of him ? " asked Alice ; for Margaret was at that instant
husy, untwisting a knot that had somehow got into the yarn she was
spinning.

'* Why, nothing of him, but what you know, both of ye, better thmn
I can tell you ; " said Poll, glancing shrewdly into both their faces alter
nately, that she might try and find out which of the young girls shoirecl
most interest in what she was saying ; '* nothing of him ; bat much ol
what he said ; " added she with a nod, as she emphasised the last words.

^^ And what said he?" Alice went on ; for Margaret was still intent
upon the knot.

'' Ah, you're a daughter of gran nam Eve, mistress Alice, like as all,
Lord forgive us ! " exclaimed Poll Quickly. " Now, I warrant me, you
couldn't guess, not you, that master Page's talk was naught but of a cer-
tain young maiden, that sits nearer to me, than I am to London t0¥m ;
and if I was to say she's one of the two who are known for the merriest
maids in all Windsor, you wouldn't think that, either, would you?"

" And pr'y tliee what was his talk of us ? What found he new to
say of his two old playmates and neighbours?" said Alice.

" Why. he said — he said — tliat he loved them both dearly ;" stam*
mered Poll Quickly : who, when thus called upon to repeat what master
Page had actually said, could recollect nothing more definite, or to the
purpose, in his laudation.

The two merry maidens burst into a gay laugh. "• Is that all the
mystery thou hast to tell ? That's nothing new, to say or to hear ! We
know full well that we are favourites of his, as two friends of such long
standing needs must be ;" said Alice.

"Ay, but his favourite one of the two of ye — ^which is she, I won-
der?" said Poll Quickly slyly, and rallying; for she was not long to be
disconcerted.

" Ay, — which ? — I wonder, which ? " said Alice. " But in good sad
ness. I think it would be hard to tell which ; for I believe he likes w
both so well, there's not a pin to choose between us. Qeorge Page loTee

THE MBRRT UAIDS OF WINDSOR. 428

Meg and me as dearly as sisters; and he's too good a brother to bieed
dissention, by giving one a preference to the other."

" Sisters, quoth'a ? " retorted Poll ; " Troth, mistress Alice, you're a
sly bird ; but there's a fowler lying in wait for you, or I'm much mistook,
that'll lure you into his net some of these fine days, and make you his
turtle-dove ; he'll springe ye, he'll ring-fence ye, he'll cage ye. I'll war-
rant ; which Heaven send, I pray." So saying, with many a nod, and
wink, and chuckling laugh, Poll quickly left the wicket-gate, and pottered
away.

For some time after her departure, the two merry maids pursued their
spinning in silence, — an unusual thing with them ; but at length Alice
said with a smiling look towards her companion : — '' I'm minded, Meg,
that should Poll Quickly be right in fancying that George Page likes one
of us better than the other, and that one even more dearly than a sister,
he needn't fear the fate of Ambrose Barley-broth."

" He wouldn't woo like Ambrose Barley-broth ; " replied Margaret.
*' If George Page loved a girl well enough to wish her for a wife, he'd
tell her so himself, and at once."

" May be so ; and may be, that ' at once ' is not so far off, eh, Meg ? '*
said Alice ; " I've a notion it'll be shortly ; what say you ? "

" Nay, perhaps you know best ; " answered Margaret smiling ; " Poll
Quickl) said one of the merry maids was his favourite ; who knows but
it may be you, after all ? "

" I know better ; and so do you, Meg. Come, now ; own like the
honest girl thou art, that thou see'st he loves thee, and that thou lov'st
him."

" If he tell me the one, I'll tell thee the other, Alice," said her friend,
blushing and laughing. '' But, come now, in thy turn own to me, whe-
ther there is not one, beside the friend in question, who, were he to tell
thee the same tale, would get as kind an answer for his pains."

''■ Where should such a one be ? " said Alice.

" Marry, at college, now ; " replied Margaret ; " but vacation-time
will soon be here, and then he returns to Windsor, and then "

'^ And then," interrupted Alice, ^' if he tell me the tale thou think'st
b^. has to tell, I'll tell thee the tale thou expect'st to hear from me."

424

UO AHD auob;

"A bargain;*' said Meg. And the two friends' ij^ning-whaela
went merrily on; while the spinBters struck into a quaint ditty^ in
which tliey both joined voices tunefully together : —

lir Yoics.

IVB Voicx.
Ad lib.

mm

AOCOKV.

f
\

O, the hum of the wheel

iKz;:

O, the hum of the wlieel

T

i

P

*!

^^^^p^-^^^^^p

^m^

F=^=l

^

plea - sant aud chee - ry I Of the hum of the wheel, O,

r=^

plea - sant and chee * rv ! Of the hum uf the wheel, O,

j^p5^--q=g::^ J J -j-^

m^^^^^m^m^m

who could grow wea - ry? It chimes wiih our song.

?^

It

§

^^

^^^

^g I— ^

^

who could gi-ow wc-a - ly? It chimes with our Kong,

It

THB MBRRT MAIDS OF WINDSOR.

426

helps us a - long,

It chimes with our song,

he1p8 us a • long,

It chimes with our song,

fm

::C

p ^T ~ iziz^z:

E

'^^^^^==xF\^^^^m

helps us a - long,

As we spin the good yam.

P^^

^

3^

1^^=^'

\

helps us a - long

As we spm ' the good yam,

^

^jij^^Lj.

■JtlA.tA

S^=F=\ I I l-J-l-i-l I I ^M

•f

^^^-.^^e-^^^^f"^^^'^^^'^?^^^^^

Length - i - ly, Speed - i - ly. Fast as our fin - gers can fly.

Lenprth - i - lyi Speed - i - Iv, Fast as our fin - gers can fly.

m

426

MEO AND ALIOS

^

Secomo Yxmmm.

jN V

jF^^

'^^^mi

O, the hum of the wheel

18

i

'^E=^ VliS^^:

izidVzziq^'

^■=3f=^=-3-■=

O, the hum of tii» wlTeel

I

u

=^.E^35=-^I^^:EE :_^.-_qfEEg^E3

^

^^^^^pl-^f^il^3^^^

glad - somo and gay! The light work of the whecr^ e*en

glad - some and gay ! The light work of the wheeTs c'cn

i^E£=n^=

^-^Hi^i^i^

^|fci-/_i=:>=:^

f-^^

bet- ter than play; To our song it keeps time, Murmun

^s:^^^^i

bet - ter than plav; ^ To our 8ong it keeps time,

Hurmon

Srr^^i^

THE MBRRT MAIDS OF WINDSOR.

427

-^i-^.=^
^

t

^f^=^=^

K^

8i)it witli our rhyme,

^ soft with 0

To i)iir song it keeps time, Munuuix

To our Bong it keeps time, Murmurs

soft with our rhvme.

As we spin the good yam,

^1

i

8oO with our rhyme,

I

gSl^^jCZZlgJEg^

As we 8pm * the good yam,

^^^^p^^P

1

fe=-Jbi:j^ii^ipi^^B"^t^^g^i

Web soundly, Thread roundly, Fast as our fiugcre cim fly.

^g^^^^Ei^fe^^^^^^^

Web soundly. Thread roundly. Fast as our fio-gers Cim hy.

P

aa^S*

^Tfrm-^

428 MBo AND alicb;

About this time, sir Marmaduke Ducandrake returned to his eslatt
at Windsor, after a lengthened sojourn in London, where he had contriTed
to fool away larger sums of money than ever. One of these sums wms
lost at a tavern, where the Templars, and young law-students of the
different inns of court, much resorted. The young fellow who hud
gained the knight's money, was not inclined to trust his debtor anj the
more for finding that his rank was above that of his associates ; and when
sir Marmaduke owned that he had not as much cash about him as would
pay the sum lost, the young man blustered, and would have doubtless
proceeded to ev^n worse extremities than venting his ire in severai
opprobrious terms, the least of which was * sneak-up,' ^coystril,' and
* bilking knave.' But in this emergency, one of the company, a country
«quire, — who happened to be in London on a visit of the same nature
with the one which called sir Marmaduke thither, namely, a desire to get
rid of a little of his superfluous revenue, and enjoy a roystering season
in the metropolis, — stepped forward, and offered the use of his purse to
sir Marmaduke Ducandrake, only soliciting the honor of his friendship
in return for this passing service.

With much alacrity, sir Marmaduke seized this opportune tender,
and protested that it was he who should feel honored by the acquaintance
of a gentleman who could behave with so much spirit and generosity of
feeling.

The country squire announced his name to be Robert Shallow, Esq.i
of Gloucestershire ; upon which a friendly alliance was struck up be-
tween him and sir Marmaduke that lasted all the remainder of the
London season. T^he knight introduced the country squire to such of
the amusements at the court-end of the town, as he thought he might
safely be seen in with so bumpkin a companion, letting it be well under-
stood, that the squire was rich enough to gild his rusticity and make it
pass current among the town gentry ; wl lie, in return, the country squire
introduced the knight to several delectable tavern-haunts Eastward,
which had till now been unknown ground to the courtier. But when the
court removed to Windsor for the summer, the friends were compelled
to part ; for sir Marmaduke had to attend the royal suite, as well as tc

THE mniRT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 429

^isit his estate, that he might recruit his health and his finances, which
had both suffered, in the late London campaign ; while, on his side, the
country squire was about to return to Gloucestershire, to resume hij9
magisterial duties, being a justice of the peace in that county.

Sir Marmaduke had given his note of hand for the money he had
borrowed of justice Shallow in his emergency ; and now, on taking leave,
he told bis friend, he would forward him the sum in question, — three
hundred and fifty pounds, — by a safe hand, so soon as he should return
to his Windsor estate.

On the very morning after his arrival there, sir Marmaduke sent for
his treasurer and bailiff, farmer Page, and told him the occasion he had
for various sums ; and among others, he mentioned this one, and desired
Page would find a trustworthy messenger to convey the amount of his
debt to Gloucestershire, and to place it in the hands of justice Shallow.
The farmer undertook that his own son should execute the knight's
commission ; and accordingly George Page was desired to be ready by
the following morning to set out upon his journey.

Now, a journey of some seventy miles, through Berkshire woods, and
meadows, and among Gloucestershire uplands and hills, in lovely summer
weather, on horseback, and at a pace suited to the rider's own liking,
should seem no such irksome task ; and yet, when it was first proposed
by farmer Page to his son, true it is, that George did not feel the glee,
in its prospect, which most young men of his age would have both felt
and shown. But neither did he manifest any discontent ; he took his
father's directions with regard to the message and the packet he was to
bear, and prepared to set forth with his usual frank good-humour and
unclouded brow. •

The cause of his first unwillingness, and his subsequent cheerful
assent in the matter, might be gathered from the words he muttered to
himself, as he saddled his horse at an early hour next day, and began
his journey : — " I can tell her, just as well, when I return ; it has
been so long untold, — perhaps unthought, even by myself, — that it may
well abide unspoken till I come back. And yet, meantime, I wish I
oould have seen her ; had it been but to say goodbye; although, had I

430 MEG AND ALICE;

said that, I had certainly said more. Well, I ihoald have oarrML a
lighter heart into Gloucestershire could I haye told its secret to Meg
before I went ; I should be a coxcomb to fancy that hers will be heavy
at my goin^ away without a word ; but yet, I would I had seen her er^
I left Windsor."

The morning was one of those so common to a fine English summer,
when the landscape is shrouded in silvery dew and haze, which foretellfl
the glowing beauty of the coming day; what time the sun, with his
amorous warmth, shall raise the veil that screens the coy earth, and call
upon the universal sky to bear witness to her loveliness.

The air was scented with many a hay-cock ' and bean-blossom, as it
came freely wafted over field and meadow ; its stillness was marred by
no ruder sound than the soaring lark's song, the lowing of herded kine.
the hum of insects, the rustle of leaves stirred by its light summer breeie.
All nature seemed filled with sweet and hopeful things ; while still the
burden of George Page's thought vas : — '• yet I would I had seen her ere
I left Windsor." It had not been repeated to himself above twenty-liye
times, at the very utmost computation ; certainly, he had not measured
a furlong's space from his father's farm, — when, suddenly his ear caught
sound of a blithe voice carolling some rustic ballad, and his eye fell upon
the very form which of all others he had been longing to see.

Yes; there was Margaret Gay singing as clear as a blaok-bird,
carrying a basket on her arm, and stepping at a smart pace along the
hedgerow foot-path, which skirted the bridle-way

** Why, what in the name of blest fortune brings thee abroad, and BO
early ? " said George Page, as the young girl turned her head at the
sound of his horse's foot.

'^ I am going across the fields to Ashleigh farm ; there's a cotter
there, who was once a hind at my father's. Mother heard that his poor
wife, and two of the children, are sick of the hay-fever, so she sent me
over to see what can be done, and to take them a couple of pullets to
make broth of. and some new-laid eggs. And what may take you this
way ? On horseback, too ; it must be some distant errand."

*'^ I go, at my father's bidding, into Gloucestershire ; " answenkl

■ ••■^i

THE MERRT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 43

George Page ; '' but I oan't tell thee well all about it, thou walking, 1
riding. Either Til dismount, and sit beside thee awhile under the
hedge; or thou shalt get up with me, and let Daisy carry thee to
Ashleigh farm, round by the road-way, which, with the help of her back,
will be as near as the path over the fields.'*

^^ I'll not be the means of making George Page loiter on his errands ;
and so. mayhap, get his father's ill-word ;" said Meg.

" Give me thy hand, then ; set thy foot firm on my instep ; now give
a spring, and up thou art !" And thus she was lifted to his saddle-bow.

" And now tell me, Meg, "

*^ I thought you were to tell me ;" interrupted she ; for George Page.
— doubtless in his anxiety to prevent her falling from the horse, — had
passed both arms around her ; and, as he spoke, they held her more
closely than the danger seemed to require ; " you were going to say
what causes your journey into Gloucestershire, weren't you ? "

" Ay ; my father sends me thither, on business of sir Marmaduke's,
to one justice Shallow. I shall be gone a bare fortnight, I fancy ; but
meanwhile I'm glad to have seen Margaret Gay before I set forth, though
it be to say farewell."

'' ^ Farewell ' for so short an absence, is no hard word to say ;" said
Margaret Gay. " Better have to say ' farewell ' for a fortnight's ride,
than ' God be wi' you' for a year and a sea-voyage."

'^ I'm glad to hear thee say thou had'st rather part with me for a
fortnight than a year, Meg. But let me ask thee a plain question or
two."

'' Thou'rt like to get but wry answers to thy plain questions, if thou
hold'st me so tight, George ;" said she ; '^ prisoners, thou know'st, are apt
to be crabbed in reply to their jailers."

^^ I am no jailer ; I would be none to thee, Meg ; I would be thy
husband ;" said George Page.

"My husband? cry you mercy, what is that but a jailer ?" replied
she.

" I'll show thee what else, if thou'lt make me thine, dear Meg ;" he
said. " No grim jailer ; but a warm friend, a zealous protector, a loving
spouse, shalt thou have of me, if thou wilt have me for a husband."

132 MEG AND ALICE;

" Too raanj good things in one man, to refuse I'll think of your
good offer, if you'll give me breathing-space. Set me down on the ground \
I can think more at my case there, than I can here. A free-bom Eng^«
lish woman pants for liberty of choice, and how can I choose freely whon
you hug me so tight ? I'm in prison here, and can't give your proposal
consideration at large, which is its due. Set me down, George."

'* That will I not ; unless you tell me that the gyves hurt you :" said
he. letting his arms give her another gentle clasp.

^^ If I tell you they neither pain me nor offend me, you'll be Mking
me to wear them for life ;" said she.

^ Tou should never know rougher shackles ; nor worse prison-fare,
than bread and cheese with appropriate garnish — and thou'rt too good a
housewife not to know what that is ; nor crueller usage than this." The
last word was accompanied by something that rhymed to it ; while Meg
said : — " If you neglect the bridle thus, master George, I fear me
Daisy will take her own pace, and we shall never reach Ashleigh farm
to-day."

" I care not how long we are going thither ;" said George Page.

" Is it thus you obey your father's bidding to speed into Gloucester-
shire ? " asked Meg.

^' He bade me ride, not speed ; and I am resolved I will not on
thither, until I carry with me thy promise to be my wife on my retom.
Meg. I've set my heart on it."

*' If so, I can but give thee the promise thou desir'st, George ; and
to make it better worth the carrying, suppose I let thee know that my
heart goes with it ?" said Meg.

The storm of kisses with which her frank words were greeted, maj
be inferred from Meg's exclamation of " George, you'll frighten the very
birds off the trees ! See how farmer Ashleigh's sober cows are staring
at us ! But there's Miles Swinkley's cottage. Now set me down in
earnest. George. God bless thee ; and farewell !"

With one parting hug, the lover let his mistress dismouLt; and tban
he set forward at a pace that should make up for the time he hsd
pleasantly lost.

s _-

THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 438

In the afternoon of the fourth day from the one on which he left
home. George Page found himself at the gates of master Robert Shallow's
dwelling. It was a goodly red-brick house, with a trim flower-garden
in front and surrounding the immediate tenement ; a spacious orchard,
barns, and out-houses, lay beyond; and beyond those again, was a moder-
ately-sized deer-park, with a few acres of grass and corn fields.

When George Page pulled the great gate-bell to announce his ap-
proach, there was a rough grinning, head or two thrust forth from a stable
near at hand — there was a whispering — a boy ran across the lawn, and
entered the house by a little side door ; then from the principal entrance
there issued a man-servant of apparently greater dignity, who was don-
ning an official coat of livery as he came along towards the gate, through
which he inspected the stranger on horseback, and enquired his business.

" T come on business from sir Marmaduke Ducandrake to his good
friend master Robert Shallow. Be pleased to tell the worthy justice
this, and that I crave to see him by the name of George Page."

'• I will bear your message, sir ; " and the man disappeared.

Presently he returned ; opened the great iron gates with some
pomp ; and calling to a stable-lad. he bade him lead the gentleman's
nag away, while he besought master Page to follow him straight to his
worship.

Master Robert Shallow was seated in state, in the apartment which
served him as a justice-room, and rose a little stiffly to receive the
emissary of sir Marmaduke, as if willing to do him honor ; but when
Geoige Page had stated his ^rand, had repeated the knight's greeting,
and had delivered the sum he had in charge, with many courteous acknow-
ledgments on the part of sir Marmaduke for the seasonable aid afford-
ed by his esteemed friend, master Robert Shallow, the justice subsided
into the slipshod ease, and good-humored babble which was his
usual manner.

" Why, this is well, this is well, of my friend, sir Marmaduke. It
is noble ; believe me, it is noble, to remember his debt, and not leave all
heed of it, as many a gay fellow of a courtier would have done, if all
slanders were true that men breathe against us gentry, who love a

43 A MEG AND ALICE;

Lon(ion life, and a merry; it is well, it is well; at a word, it ui
noble, right noble."

^* I shall bear him word of your good esteem, sir, when I reach
Windsor with this paper ; " said George Page, as he folded up the
quittance which the justice had written out, and handed to him.

" Ay, do so, do so, good youth, when you return to Windsor ; but
that must not be speedily. You must give me your good company
awhile, master Page ; we cannot part so. we cannot part so ; by yea and
nay, I cannot part with you yet."

'' I thank you heartily for your hospitality, worshipful sir ; for ft
night I will gladly accept it ; " said George Page.

'* A night shall not serve, master Page ; a few days you must spare
me. By cock and pye, I will not be said nay. A night shall not serve ;
in good sooth, it shall not ; give me your hand, sir, give me your hand
upon it."

George Page, who was not one to withstand heartiness of manner,
shook hands with the worthy justice, and promised to stay the few days
he desired ; although, in his secret heart, he would have been glad to
hasten back to Windsor and to Margaret Gay.

'' It is well said, master Page, and it is well said, indeed. To-
morrow I expect some cousins over here to see me. Worshipful master
Silence, a brother justice of mine ; with his good wife, who was a Shallow
- — my cousin, Winfred Shallow ; and their two children, — my god-
daughter Ellen, and her young brother, William ; good children, very
good children ; good and fair, good and fair."

^' Eight glad shall I be to make acquaintance with so many goodly
scions of master Robert Shallow's family ; " said George Page.

" By'r lady, master Page, I think the Shallows are a goodly family ;
we are known in the county, we are known in the county, master Page ;
^tis an old coat, an old coat, and a respected coat ; it blazons well 'mongat
our country scutcheons ; its dozen white luces do no shame to Glou-
cestershire; 'tis a good coat, and an old coat. Can there be mort
said? It is both good and old."

'• It hath worn well, and been born honorably ;" said George Page. ,

J? .

THE MERRT MATD8 OF WINDSOR. 435

" Bodykins master Page, you say well, and you say well, i'faith
And I shall let you see more cousins — more of the goodly family we
wot of M istress Slender, that was a Shallow — Bridget Shallow — a cousin
of mine, dwells here in the house with me, since her husband's death —
a worthy man, master Page, nobody dare say an ill word of him, and he
broke his neck in a fox-chase, — and her son, Abraham Slender, worthy
to be a Shallow — as he is in blood, indeed and in faith."

" I shall be glad to know them, sir ; " said George Page.

" And you shall know them ; and know them soon, too. Come with
me. good master Page ; we shall find them in the orchard, I warrant
me. Come with me ; come with me."

Justice Shallow, having previously ascertained that his guest had
already dined, led the way to the orchard ; and there, as he expected,
they found mistress Slender seated, knitting, beneath an apple-tree, be-
side an oaken table, on which was spread a dessert of fruit and cakes,
sweetmeats, and wine.

" Servant, sir ;" said mistress Slender, looking over her glasses at the
young stranger, and giving a short nod in answer to George Page's low
bow towards her, as the worthy justice performed the ceremony of intro-
duction. '• It's well junkets and pippins don't cool, standing in the open
air ;" the lady continued, in a kind of mumbling undertone addressed to
no one in particular, but aimed at the master of the house ; " but if it
had been a good hot chine and dumplings, or a smoking sirloin, it would
na' fared the same."

It was a fashion peculiar to mistress Slender — no, not quite peculiar
to her, for some good ladies have been known to share it in common
with her, — but it was a fashion of mistress Blender's to signify her dis-
pleasure at the conduct of those around her, by side-wind remarks, mut-
tered in a low grumbling voice ; and thus, on the present occasion, did
she mark her disapproval of her cousin, the justice, and his guest, for
having, by their protracted talk in the justice-room, kept the dessert
waiting.

But it was the custom with those who knew her, to pay not the
slightest regard to these animadyersioDS of hers, since they were spoken

136 MEG AND ALICE;

in a sort of soliloquy, that claimed no absolute reply ; so now, jasttoc
Shallow, as if no such words had been uttered, said to her : — ^ And
where's my cousin Abraham ? Where's he ? He should bo here ; he
should be here ; I want to make him known to this worthy young gen*
tleman. master George Page. Where's Abraham ?"

^^ He's down at the kennel, I fancy ; he'll get his legs bit off^ or bis
head torn to shivers, or his back bone rent in twain some of these odd
days, if he's let to go among those rampagious hounds, all day long, as
he does now :" said mistress Slender.

" My young cousin's parlous fond of dogs ; his heart's with the
hounds alwnys ; he'd take meat and drink with 'em, sleep with 'em, live
with 'cm, if he could ;" said justice Shallow to George Page ; *' he's fond
of dogs ; vastly fond of dogs."

^^ He'll turn to a dog himself, if he's let to be with 'em so much ,**
muttered mistress Slender.

" Davy, what Davy, I say !" shouted justice Shallow to the serving-
man, of whom he caught a glimpse just then, — ^the same who had ushered
George Page in ; *' come hither, Davy ; run, Davy, and bid one of the
lads speed down to the kennel, and bring hither mast<)r Slender ; tell
him I want him here, I want him here. And Davy ! Davy I Let me
see, let me see ; bid William Cook get us an early supper ready ; my
young guest here, will be glad of a timely meal after his ride ; and
Davy ! Davy ! No — no matter ; go thy ways, Davy."

^'' The varlot should be told to wear his shoes up at heels, and not be
allowed to go about, that slipshod fashion ;" said mistress Slender, look*
ing after the serving-man as he ran off. with his dangling soles flacking
against his feet like a loose horse-shoe ; '*but he'll have kibcd heels next
winter, for his pains, that's one comfort."

At this moment, a tall gangling lad, of about ten or jeleven years of
age, came leaping over a wicket gate that led from the orchard into the
park, and came straight to the table, exclaiming : — ^^ I haven't had any
dessert yet ! Why wasn't I called ? I'll have some, though, or I'll
know why."

He was just going to snatch some of the fruit, when suddenly per

THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 437

eeiviDg George Page, he stood looking at the stranger with staring eyei
and gaping mouth. The hand which had been stretched out, was shyly
withdrawn^ and began to fumble with the lash of a whip which he held
in the other ; winding it round and round his fingers, coiling and un-
coiling it, all the time keeping his eyes fixed and his mouth open, gloring
at Page.

" Come hither, Abry ;" said his mother ; " why, what a sight the
dogs have made of thee, boy. Here's a crumpled ruff and soiled
doublet !"

But the lad did not move. His feet remained glued to the. spot;
his eyes and mouth were still wide-fixed ; and he kept on twisting and
untwisting the lash of his whip round his hand. The only sign he gave
of having heard his mother, was a hunching shrug of one of his shoul-
ders

" Thou was't called to dessert, believe me, cousin Abraham ;" said
justice Shallow ; " I sent for thee just now ; did'st not meet Davy ? I
sent him for thee ; I sent him to fetch thee ; I sent him for thee, to
make thee known to good master Page. Know him, good worthy sir ;
know my cousin Abraham, I beseech you."

The ungain shoulder hunched once more; the feet shifted and shuf-
fled, as the cub stood first on one leg, then upon the other ; hanging his
head, with eyes askance, and looking much like sir Chanticleer under the
dispiriting influence of a severe fit of cramp. But George Page went
towards him, and, in his own hearty way, made acquaintance with him ;
so toat master Abraham was not so long as might otherwise have been,
in getting over his shyness sufficiently to answer some of the good-hu-
moured speeches with which Page plied him.

Next day they became still better friends. Master Slender took his
new acquaintance to see the kennel ; and when he found that George
was fond of dogs, and knew a great deal about them, and imparted one
or two valuable secrets in the management and cure of some of the dis-
eases to which master Abraham's canine friends were subject ; and when^
moreover, he found that George Page expressed much admiration of
these hounds of his cousin Shallow's, of the mode in which the pack wai

438 MEG AND ALICE;

trained and treated, of the construction of their konnel, and, in Bbort
praised everything that he could honestly praise, in what was so ospe
cially interesting to master Abraham himself, master Abraham took quite
a fancy to George Page, and vowed he liked him well-nigh as much ae
Clowder or Echo.

" l^y the mass. Vm sorry to part with you ;" he said to George Psge,
on the day before the one fixed for his return home. " I thought when
I first saw you. you were like to turn out some fine Windsor spark, who'd
treat a Gloucestershire lad like a clod or a turnip ; but for all there's no
court -at Cotswold as there is at your castle, I find you can be civil and
likely, with us in these country parts. 'Slid, if you had come over mc
with any of your Berkshire or London airs, I should have been as like
to have swinged you as spoke to you, for all you're twice my size, and
mayhap twice my years, and so I tell you fairly. But I like ye ; and I
tell ye that as fairly too, la."

*' And I like you too, well, believe me, master Slender ;" returned
Page ; "should your cousin, worshipful master Shallow, ever come Wind-
sor-way, and bring you with him, I hope both he and you will visit us.
My father and I will be proud to see you at our poor house."

With many friendly expressions on all sides, George Page left the
house of justice Shallow ; the worthy magistrate himself coming to the
iron gates to see his young friend mount, loading him with greetings to
sir Marmaduke. and pressing him to come as soon again into Glouces-
tershire as might be ; while master Abraham hung about him. and ex-
pressed his grief at parting, in his own ungain fashion, fairly blubbering
out his unwillingness to see him go.

"I would I might be hanged, but I'm sorry to see your horse;" he
sobbed, as Daisy, ready saddled, was brought round ; ^' I like not the beast,
though I've no cause to hate her. The jade never did me harm, yet I
could find in my heart to lash her soundly for carrying you away."

'•Forgive Daisy, for the sake of her master, good master Slender;"
said Page smiling. '* She bears me safely and well, and yon must owe
her no grudge for doing her duty. So, bid her and me, God speed, and
farewell !"

THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 439

'' And Daisy is your good mare's name V* said justice Shallow, as he
itood patting her throat, while George Page .got into the stirrups ; "mar-
ry a good mare, and a good name ; she is as white as a daisy ; a fitting
name, a very fitting name ; nay, it can't be but Daisy."

Not long after George Page reached home, Frank Ford also returned
to Windsor. He too was on horseback, and as he rode into the town, he
stopped at the Star inn, where his horse was usually stabled, there being
no accommodation of the kind at his father's house. While he stood at
the door of the hostelry, drinking a glass of small ale after his hot and
dusty ride. Poll Quickly, the bar-maid, who had handed it to him. dropped
him a deferential curtsey, and asked whether he would not like a cool
seat under the spreading elm in front of the house.

" Thanks, good mistress Polly ;" said the young man ; " but sooth to
say, I've ridden far enough this morning to make lounging here against
the doorpost a welcomer change, after so long a seat in the saddle, than
the bench yonder. Besides, here I can enjoy a gossip with thee, and
thou can'st tell me all the Windsor news, which will be a godsend to
one who has been so long away."

" Troth, master Ford, and it's like your worship's kind heart to say
so, and to think so. Many's the young gentleman that would hold his
head too high, and be too much the gentleman, for being a collegiate,
to be gentle enough to care for a gossip with one that can't speak Greek,
I give Heaven praise; but you hold it no dishonesty to idle away a
half hour with an honest maid, which I detest I am ; blessing on your
heart for it !"

" Well, and what is the best news with you, mistress Polly ; and
what's the newest among the Windsor folk ?"

*• Faith, bad's the best of my news, master Ford, good as it is of you
to ask that ;" she replied. " A bar-maid's life is not the life of a lady.
Travellers are few of them lords, fewer of 'em, angels ; and fewer still,
have any angels to bestow on the bar-maid ; a paltry tester is the oftest
coin that finds its way to her hand, from travellers' pockets ; and seldom
have they eyes to see that her coif would be all the better for a shilling's
worth of ribbon ; but that's neither here Dor there."

44() MEo AND Alice;

^ I would not so disparage the coif thou wear'st now, as to saj tlitl
it needs a new ribbon ; but here's a shilling that will replace the bright
one thou hast, when it fades ;" said Ford smiling, as he took the hint so
palpably aimed. *' And now for the rest of thy news."

" First and foremost, there's sir Paul Pureton's news ; he*s dead ; *
said Poll Quickly ; ^' then master Hugh Evans, the Welsh latin soholari
is to be reader in his place, which will make him sir Hugh, of oonne ;
then there's little old Will Patterly, the barber ; he's joined hands in
the dance of death, too ; but he was past his work, so there's no great
loss to Windsor, and but small gain to the worms, for such a stanreling
body as he was. will make but a spare meal for 'em. A plumper morsel
they'll get in Dick Clcaveholm, the butcher, who, they say, is woll-nigh
off the hooks, and can't last a week. A many's the carcass he's chop-
ped up, and now he's to be cut off himself ! Well, Heaven's above all !"

^' What a catalogue of deaths thou hast to tell me, good mistress Pol-
ly !" exclaimed Frank Ford ; *^ is there no pleasant news stirring? Noth*
ing but dismal tidings in Windsor ? "

" Ay now, I warrant me, it's weddings, and not funerals, you yoang
folks love to hear of ;" said Poll ; -^ well, there's something going on
that'll lead to weddings, or I'm much mistook." And she nodded her
head mysteriously.

'* Indeed ; let us hear that, by all means." he said.

'• Why then, it's not for nothing young Ambrose Barley-broth goes
about hanging his head, and casting sheep's eyes at a certain meny
maid of Windsor ; it's not for nothing that his father and mother asked
young mistress Gay's father and mother how their daughter stood afEeot-
ed to their son, which I heard was the case no farther back than jester*
day se'nnight, when they spent the evening at the farm."

" And what was the answer to the suit?"

*' Nay, that I've not yet learned ; but I shall, depend on^t Trust ma
for feretting out the rights of a matter, when I choose. I have an eje,
I thank Heaven, and an ear. though you mightn't think it, to look in
my face, master Ford. I have both eyes and ears for many a quiet
thing, that sly folks think to keep snug to themselves. There's master

THE MERRT UAWS OF WINDSOR. 44.

Qeorge Page, now, fancies he's mighty clever, and that his thoughts are
hid up in the clouds, because he stoops his head like a goose going an«
der a doorway."

'^ Why, George Page bears his head high, and his face open to every
gazer ;" said Frank Ford, laughing.

" You're right, master Ford, he doth so ;" said the imperturbable
Poll ; '* but it's for that very reason, that when he does hold his head
down, folks with half a grain of eye and ear, may see he has something
to hide in his face and his heart."

" But have you seen him thus? What do you infer from that, good
mistress Polly ? Do you believe that my friend George Page is in love,
as well as Ambrose Barley-broth?"

'• Troth, master Ford, I believe what I believe ; I refer what I refer ;
and I know what I know ;" said Poll Quickly, becoming more myste-
rious, in proportion as she perceived her companion's manner denote
stonger interest.

*• And what dost thou know ? Anything for certain, of George
Page's liking?'* pursued Ford.

" For certain is one thing, and for unoertain's another, and guess-
work is a third ;" said she oracularly ; ^ but as true as a carp's jawbone
staunches a cut finger, so sure is master George Page in love."

" And with whom ?" said Ford eagerly.

'^ Ay, that's the word he keeps so close ; but though he speaks it not
it's as clear to be seen, to a quick eye, as though he bawled it at the mar-
ket-cross ; and mine's no dull eye, I praise Heaven for it."

'^ It is bright and sparkling, and will pierce many a heart, I warrant
it, when set off by gay colours ; let thy next knot of ribbons vie in hu^
with the rainbow, I pry'thee, mistress Polly ;" said the young man,
pressing on her an additional gratuity.

>' Lord, Lord I see how impatient you young scholars are, when
there's anything to be learnt ;'' said she. pocketing the coin; '^you think
no price too great for knowledge, and that's a worthy purchase. Lord
knows, and I'll bear witness. What can money be better spent in, than
in learning, I should like to know ?"

442 wsa AND ALICE;

c;

Then let me have thy lore, good mistress Polly ;" said Frank Ford ;
" come, what hast thou to inform me, in the matter of George Page's
love ? I would fain know who is his choice 1"

^^ As for informing any lore to such a scholar as your worship, il
seems a likely thing, indeed, I could ; but since the best sprag learner
that ever learnt, can't hope to learn what's passing behind his bsek
without being told, why, I'll e'en make bold to tell your worship what
has taken place, since you've been away, in young master Page's
heart."

" Ay, do, I pry'thee ;" said Ford.

^ Well then, both the long and the short of it, and the very yea and
the no is, that master George Page is in love with one of the merry
maids of Windsor — and you know well enough who are the two that
bear that nay-name."

^^ Ay, ay, I know well enough ! And which of them, I pry'thee, is
George's choice ? " said Frank Ford, hurriedly.

^* Well, as I told you, I have an eye to see, and an ear to hear ; and
though he beat about the bush, and wouldn't have had me see whioh of
'em he had the best mind to, yet as clear as eggs is eggs — specionaly
new laid ones, — I could make out that he asked most direct questions
about mistress Alice May."

^^ I thought as much ;" muttered Frank Ford between his ground
teeth, as his thoughts reverted to a certain April morning, when George
Page's manner in alluding to Alice's kiss had appeared to him studious*
ly indifferent.

'•^ Yes ;" continued Poll Quickly, still more glibly, for his muttered
exclamation had confirmed her in the impression whioh had gradually
gained ground with herself, that Alice was in reality the one Oeorge
Pugc preferred ; " yes, ho certainly led most to her praise, when I was
speaking of them both ; and moreover, soon after that, when I fell ic
with the two merry maidens, spinning in the porch like notable house-
wives as they arc. — no gadabouts are they, I'll warrant ye, but a hless-
ing to any man for a wife, — I mind me, that mistress Alioe asked a
many questions about what he thought of them, and what he had

THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 449

of ^Jiem ; whilst mistress Margaret was too busy with her wheel to not«
much what I talked of."

" It's but too clear ; I ever dreaded this. Who could see her, and
not love her? And he has seen her and known her from her childhood;'
thought Frank Ford.

^^ And now, I'll warrant, we shall have you making up to the othei
merry maiden ; and so, we shall have a double wedding ; Lord forgive
us ! " said Poll Quickly. Then gaining assurance from the start with
which Frank Ford received this proposition, as he woke up from the
momentary trance into which this retrospect had plunged him, she went
on to say : — " Well, well, it's a strange world to see ! Young men and
maidens will be thinking of loving each other, and marrying, and all
kinds of housewifery, and settling, and new relationships, and Heaven
above knows what beside ! Marry, your worship's a wag, and knows how
to fix upon a comely bride like the rest of us ! And a comely bride
she'll make, will mistress Margaret ; and a merry wooing and a speedy
wedding may you have of it with her, I say, and I pray too."

'' It is kindly meant, and kindly wished ; I thank thee for thy
meaning and thy wish, mistress Polly ; " said Frank Ford, as he took
his leave of the Star hostelry, and its communicative bar-maid.

That evening there was to be a merry-making at farmer Page's, to
celebrate the return of his son from Gloucestershire. All the young
people of tLe neighbourhood were to be there ; and when it was found
that Frank had also come home from college that very day, an invitation
was despatched, begging him to join the party. He was in no mood for
mirth ; he thought of pleading fatigue from his ride, a headache, — ^any-
thing— to excuse him from going among his friends, two of whom, al
any rate, he dreaded to meet. He might have honestly urged either of
these pleas, for his agitation since he had heard of George Page's love
for Alice May had made him feel ill— sick at heart — sick of the world,
burning with mortification and a sense of ill-usage. Then again he re-
resolved he would go, and satisfy himself with his own eyes, of what he
already felt but too well assured. He thought the pain of seeing them
together, and of witnessing the tokens of their attachment| would be
even less agony than the tormenting tricks which his fancy now played

444 MEO AND alios;

him, as he pictured the girl he loyed reoeiviiig the tows, and rosponding

to the affection, of anotlicr lover.

^' Why did I not speak, ere I left her last? I might then have en*.
^afi;ed her liking — 'twould have been no treachery to Page, had 1 fore*
stalled him, though I may not now seek to supplant him. For she oer
tainly did once prefer me — a thousand innocent tokens betrayed her — a
thousand unconscious confessions of regard showed that I was not in*
different to her — nay, that I was dear to her above others. Gould she
then forget this, wlicn another than myself spoke to her of lo<ve? Bot
yes — women are all alike ; — the mere notion of a lover is irresistible to
a young girl — it turns her head — and the first man who offers himself to
her in that shape, is accepted, with no pause given to reflection that there
is perchance one, who has already touched her heart. An avowed suitor
is better worth than a silent lover — though secretly preferred as well ms
preferring — to a young girl, whose vanity is ever her strongest passion.
Then why was I this silent lover? Tet, let me not reproach myself^
since the blame is due to her lightness of heart, her fickle fancy — ^no
stabler than gossamer or thistle-down — which the first wanton breath
wafts elsewhere. I should rather rejoice than repine, that such innate
levity, with so much seeming candour, fell not to my share. I might
have trusted the affection I thought I read in those soft eyes, and so
have gathered future shame instead of present disappointment. Better
perhaps as it is ! But I will go ; that I may learn to look upon those
eyes unmoved — to steel myself against their softness by reading false-
hood where I once imagined I beheld tenderness and truth itself."

With his heart full of such thoughts, it may well be conceived that
Frank Ford's manner of greeting his old friends, when he went among
them that evening, was not particularly gracious or ingratiating. His
brow was moody, his tone was haughty, his speech sarcastio and abrupt.

On his arrival at farmer Page's, he found all the guests . assembled ;
the dancing had already commenced with great vigour, in the laigeet
barn ; and the first thing Frank Ford's eyes encountered there, was the
lithe figure of Alice May. led by George Page, as the young couple per
formed together with great spirit the evolutions of a oountry-danoe-

THE MERRT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 445

He thought he had never seen her look so beautiful, so animated, so
nappy. The fact is, her partner was just whispering in her ear the news
that Frank Ford had arrived in Windsor that morning, and that he
might be expected among them every moment. There was a sparkling
light in her eye, and a bright colour in her cheek, as she bounded along
the dance, with her head bent a little towards her partner, listening to
his low-breathed smiling words. It was all seen by him who watched
them ; and, — interpreted after his own fashion, — seemed to confirm all
that he had dreaded and heard.

Presently the beaming eye met his ; it was suddenly withdrawn, in
bashful surprise — the glowing cheek mantled yet deeper in colour, with
pleasure at seeing him ; but in both startled look and blushing cheek,
Frank Ford only read fresh proof; for he thought them evidence of her
consciousness that she had wrongd him.

** There wanted not spoken words and plighted faith between us ; "
he thought ; " she as clearly knows she has been wanting in faith to me
— that she has broken faith with me, — as though we had been solemnly
betrothed, and had pledged a thousand oaths, before she sealed a heart-
less bargain with him. Vain, unthinking girl ! "

'* You take so strong an interest in the dancing, though but a look-
er-on as yet, master Ford," said a cheerful voice near him, " that you
have not had time to greet your old friend and neighbour. Come, sup-
pose you Icid me to the lower end of the floor, and let us join the dan-
cers together ; as neither you nor I have met with a partner, let us take
pity on each other. What say you ? "

Thus challenged by Margaret Gay, Frank Ford oould not refuse^
and they accordingly took their places below the rest of the couples, to
dance their way gradually up to the top of the set.

But it was not long before Margaret perceived the abstraction of her
partner, and the little attention he gave to the requisites of the figure.
She rallied him upon it, and asked him if he still prided himself so
Dighly upon his college studies, as to despise dancing, and Windsor
sports and friends ; as in that case, she should be provoked to send him
another fairy-favor from the old beech-tree in the forest.

44G MEo AND alicb;

^' Id good sadness, mistress Margaret, 1 think the sin of oontempt
may be sooner laid to the account of my Windsor friends than to my-
self;— I hold them only too fondly in remembrance."

" Nay. old friends cannot be loved too well or too faithfully ;" re-
turned she.

" I think so ;" he said.

" Then still let your old friends and neighbours dwell in your afieo
tion, master Frank ; and let us simple bodies have the pleasure of be-
lieving we need fear no rivals in your grand new acquaintances, Plato, or
Horace. No disparagement to your noble books, but homely wit may
sometimes stead a man, where book-learning fails, when a warm friend isi
at hand to give present advice, and the library is out of reach. Old
friends and old books arc both valued by the wise man ; and master
Ford is too wise to disdain the one because he has learned the worth oi
the other. He, too, who may command the best of each."

" "Were I but as sure of my friends' love for me, as I am of mine
for them, there could be no danger of any change in our old friendship ;"
said Frank Ford.

*• Believe me, master Ford, the way to make sure of friends' love is
to feel sure of it ;" said Margaret Gay. '* Do not doubt their affection
because they may not be always showing it, or telling you of it. The
most valuable goods are ofttiuies the least displayed by their owner ;
for too much airing, or bringing into light, will decay or fade the fobrie.
Be satisfied to know where love is garnered for thee, and do not risk
wearing it out, by seeking to have it too much exhibited."

'^ I care not for the parade of love, assuredly ; but may there not be
equal risk of finding it flown when we need it. should we fail to prove it
is still there by occasional beholding ?" said Ford. " May we not even
have been too credulous, or too presumptuous at first, in believing that
it ever did exist for us? There is my old friend. George Page, for in-
stance ; I always fancied he felt the strong regard for me. which I have
for him : yet there he is dancing away, with but a nod towards me from
a distance, though we have not met for mouths."

^^ He will greet you warmly enough, be sure, wfien the Jlieasure is

THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 447

auded ;" replied she. ^' You would not have him quit the dance and his
partner, to bid you welcome, as if you were a stranger, and needed
words of courtesy to assure you of a kind reception ?"

" By no means ; I would not interfere with his duties to his partner,
on any account ;" said Frank, with a hurried accent, and a bitterness ol
tone, that told a secret to his companion.

"So, so; my gentleman is jealous, is he? And of poor George,
too ! He little knows" — and her thought ended with a smile.

Presently, she perceived that, in the course of the dance, Frank had
had occasion to take Alice's hand ; that he had sought to retain it ; but
that the figure requiring a quick change of hands, Alice had been com-
pelled to withdraw it hastily from his, that she might return it to her
partner ; and after this, Margaret saw Frank's face cloud over more
moodily than before.

'• You would have me believe in the lasting existence of kind feeling.
Margaret ;" he said, biting his lip, " and here I find a friend whom I
have known from childhood, and who, I flattered myself, had some regard
for me, snatching away her hand, as if I had been an adder among vio-
lets she stooped to gather."

" In the ardour of dancing, friendship is forgotten ;" she answered,
sniiling : " to the claims of a figure, even those of an old friend must
give way."

" Truly, it seems so ;" returned Frank. " To a light-hearted girl,
the present claim is ever the most urgent ; be it the figure of a dance-^-
the colour of a kirtle — the image of a new lover— or whatever demands
her attention for the time being."

'' Do you learn these slanders upon poor girlhood from your favorite
authors, master Ford ? Beshrew me, I think we have cause of grudge
against them, if they teach you no kinder thoughts of your old friends
at home."

Just then the dance concluded ; and George Page came up, with his
usual hearty manner, to shake hands with Frank Ford, and bid him wel-
come back to Windsor.

There was no resistiDg his cordial frankness, and for a few momenta

448 MEG AND ALIOB ;

Ford forgot all. in the pleasure of finding his hand once more within the
grasp of bis old friend and companion.

But when George Page turned towards Alice, who was leaning npoc
his arm, and put her band within Ford's, saying : — ^^ Here is another
Windsor favorite of jours ; you must dance with Alice May the next
measure ; " Frank saw in this but the action of an engaged lover, who
permitted his mistress to dance one dance with the new-comer ; and in
consequence, all his former moody restraint and coldness returned upon
him.

Tbis was terribly apparent to Alice, during the silent progrees
through the dance which they made together. She could not apeak,
from timidity, from emotion at seeing him again, and from dread of she
knew not what, which bis manner seemed to forebode ; and he, fancying
that her silence proceeded from a consciousness of wrong, was equally
reserved with herself At length the dance came to an end ; and, lead-
ing her to a seat, which happened to be near Margaret Gay, he bowed
coldly, and withdrew.

** Why sweetheart, why Alice ! " whispered her friend, " look not so
shame-faced and downcast, as though thou wert to blame, not he. Out
upon it ! Here's a trembling white lip, and a glistening eye; and all
for what, forsooth ? Because a young moon-stricken simpleton chooses
to come home and fancy a thousand things, instead of seeing the plain
one, straight before his nose. Marry, this is not the way to core him of
his jealous lunes, his foolish crochety humours. Trust to me, Alios ;
and let us teach him a lesson that'll be better for him and for thee, both
now and hereafter."

" What would'st thou have me do, Meg ? " faltered Alice.

'^ In the first place I would have thee twinkle away tliat tear fhtntt
thine eye, till it shine out with the lustre proper to it ; next, let thy lip
rather smile, than quiver. So, that's well ; thou'rt now more like thy-
self Next, I would have thee let G<>orge Page behave towards thee as
I sliall bid him, if he will be won to act a part in the play I would have
performed for the entertainment and better schooling of young master
•eholar there ; I half fear I may have some diffioultv with Gkorge, as I

THE IfEB&ir MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 449

kuow how slow these men are to join one against another in a plot, which
shall help us girls to a sweet morsel of revenge. Yet I shall constrain
him to do as I wish, as he values my kindness, and at the risk of its
forfeiture ; and thus I make sure of him. Be hut thou faithful to our
scheme, and I warrant me, between us, we'll read the young collegian a
lesson he shall remember."

" Art quite sure thy scheme may not end in being caught thyself,
Meg, as it did when we were pent in the bole of the beech-tree, and
were not allowed to escape without paying toll?" said Alice, with her
usual smile.

" Fear not ; " returned Margaret, in the same manner ; " fear nothing.

Now thou hast discarded that doleful visage, and I see thee wear thy own
face once more, I will expect nothing but discomfiture for jealous-pate ;
triumph for us."

George Page now came towards them to say that a game of Barley-
break had been proposed ; that the dancers were dispersing, and that the
sport was about to commence in the home-paddock.

Margaret Gray hastily found means to inform Page of Frank's jealous
freak, of her plan to convince him of his error by allowing him to con-
tinue in it for a few hours, and then showing him its absurdity by con-
fessing their own mutual engagement. She urged upon Page that this
would be for his friend's future welfare ; as it would, in all probability,
shame him out of his suspicious folly, and prevent his rendering Alice
and himself uneasy by any such whims hereafter.

George Page laughed at her eagerness, but suffered himself to be
persuaded to act the part of a favored lover towards Alice for a short
space, on condition that the period of Frank Ford's torment should not
be unreasonably protracted.

" Never fear, never fear ; do you and Alice play your parts truly,
and ril engage for a happy ending. Here, take her hand, and lead her
away to the home-paddock, while I go and seek my crotchety student."

Margaret Gay hurried away, and found Frank Ford already upon the
ground, standing a little apart from the gay party who were forming
themselves into groups and couples, preparatory to a bout at theif

450 MEG AND ALICE;

fnvorit«. game of Barley -break. He scarcely noted her approach, whila
nis eye caught that of George and Alice hand in hand, as thej came
towards the spot.

" Of course, he couples with her ; he waits not the decision by lot
which assigns the rest of the couples to edeh other ;" muttered Ford to
himsolf; '-they staid behind together, on purpose, ' no doubt, that he
might engage her for the game. Yet he was sure of her— as sure, at
least, as a man can be of such a light, inconsequent moth, that flatters
around the flame, unconscious of the ardour with which it burns; but
she may bo singed herself in time."

Margaret stood near to Frank Ford's side, and it :iras scarce diflicult
to read in his troubled brow, the thoughts that occupied his heart
" They have made up all the couples, beside ourselves, master Ford ;"
said Margaret ; ^'lot us take our stand together, or we shall not find a
place, save in the centre division, and you know what that's called!"

" Ay, it is called 'hell ;' " replied he; then added in a mutter ; " I
am there already, methinks, watching them."

**Are you one of the sober-minded youths who think Barley-break a
n&ughty sinful game, and an ill mode of passing time, master Ford?"
asked Margiirct Gay, with a sly smile, and a glance at his gloomy look ;
'* I'm told there are such ; mayhap, your books have taught you to turn
Puritan, or Brown ist. or other upturner of eyes at harmless mirth or
innocent pastime ? Good lack ! what a lowering frown at our poor rural
play ! I fear me, master Ford, all this catching and frolicking, and light
running to and fro, with the rest of the wicked doings at this same Bar-
ley-break, find but little favor in such grave and worshipful sight as
yours "

*' Pshaw !" exclaimed Ford, as he led the laughing girl to join the
players ; as much to put a stop to her banter, as that he had any mind to
take part in what was going forward.

•* They found the middle compartment already occupied by George
Page and Alice May : who, in the casting of the lots, according to the
laws of the game, had been allotted this station. It was termed being
^in hell ;' and it was the duty of the couple thus situated, to begin the

THE MEB.RT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. •i53

gamo by CDdeavouring to catch the rest. When they succeeded, and a
fresh couple was captured, a change of situation took place ; but there
was some difficulty in achieving this, as the couple ' in helP were bound
not to break hands. The others might run hither and thither, sepa-
rately, as far apart as they pleased, so that they kept within bounds —
which were two appointed spaces, on each side the centre portion ; the
ground occupied in the sport being divided into three compartments
altogether.

And now the sport began. As may be imagined, infinite were the
scufflings, the bustlings, the shriekings, the pushings, the pullings, the
dodgings, the dartings, the screamings, the evadings, and the seckings to
be caught, on the part of the several runners engaged in the diflferent
sets of players ; for, as there were but three couples to each game of
Barley-break, so there had to be several sets or games made up in dif-
ferent parts of the field.

In such a sport, where it was the privilege of each swain who cap
tured his damsel, to salute her as she became in turn coupled with him,
it naturally led to a great deal of wilful catching, or letting slip, as the
case might be, among the players, according as they stood affected to-
wards the object of chase or escape. Connivance, contrivance, voluntary
evasion, pertinacious pursuit, all in turn were practised by the young
people ; and it may be conceived that plenty of opportunity was thus
afforded for the carrying out of Margaret Gay's scheme for confirming
Frank Ford in his groundless fears regarding the attachment between
Gkorge Page and Alice May.

At length, after having plagued and tormented him to her heart's
content during the whole afternoon, till he was well-nigh goaded into
breaking away from the party, and vowing never more to return among
them ; it so happened that Margaret Gay, once more coupled by the
chances of the game with Frank Ford, found herself in the centre com-
partment, and that it was their turn, hand-in-hand, to try and catch the
rest. She could not resist the impulse she felt, to make an attempt at
capturing George Page, who ran close past her, at that moment ; and
who, as willing as she, threw himself in her way, and suffered himself

152 MEO AND ALICE;

to become a prisoner. At the same instant, Alice, whose heart
perhaps incapable of longer withstanding the sight of Frank's misery,
— which evidently increased with each hour, and was becoming more
and more intolerable, and less to be concealed, — brushed so near to his
extended arm, that he readily effected her seizure. Somehow, the kiss
which thus became his, by right of capture, was yielded with a gentle-
ness that melted his resentment ; and made the lover's feelings towards
his supposed perjured mistress, partake more of the nature of those he
had experienced wlien he first touched those lips among the park trees,
than he could have believed possible.

^' There is magic in th^ir rosy softness ;" he said to himself; ^ it it
thus that these little witches confound our very senses, making us forget
what we see and hear, in the spell of a touch ! And yet I have seen
him take her hand ; I have heard him whisper words that brought the
colour into her cheek. Sorcery ! Witchcraft ! Shall I suffer myself
again to be enthralled?"

But the chances of the game now threw Frank Ford and Alice May
within the centre compartment together. Thus coupled, thus linked
with her, hand-in-hand, all his stern resolutions, his anger against her,
were once more mollified and put to flight ; it was impossible to harboar
rf.sentment against one whose hand trembled within his own, and whose
soft blue eyes seemed seeking pardon of his ; as he looked upon her, he
felt more and more how impossible it was ; and soon, his only thought
was how to prolong the time of their remaining together within thui
boundary, which now he found to be anything but ^ hell' to him. As
this state of feeling somehow communicated itself to Alice, it naturally
befel that they relaxed in their attempts to capture the rest of the
couples, and cause an exchange of places ; so that it as naturally eniaed,
that the game languished ; and, shortly after, it was broken up, and the
players dispersed, in groups, to the orchard ; where, beneath the cherry-
trees, a supper was spread, while still so early that it might be eaten hj
the glow of the western sun.

The guests were all seated round the oaken tables ; merriment, good-
oheer, laughter, abounded : good-humoured sallies flew round, drawing

THE HERB ST MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 458

parmlleU of beauty between the maidens' lips and the ripe fruit that
hung from the branches overhead, and sauoy hints of the sweet taste ot
each, — compliments more remarkable for truth, perhaps, than for origin-
ality, but which had their merit in the gaiety and sincerity of heart with
which they were spoken. The young people flirted, and talked, and
smiled ; the old folks looked on. well pleased to see their children hap-
py ; while all joined in doing justice to the good things provided for
their entertainment, after the hearty country fashion of '' merrie Eng-
land" in the olden time.

Suddenly, Margaret Gay's quick eye glanced round the table, and
she whispered George Page, who sat beside her: — "I see neither Alice
May, nor Frank Ford. My life on't, that little traitress has dropped
the mask, thrown up her part, and left the play unplayed out."

" I shouldn't wonder ;" said G-eorge Page with his quiet smile. " I
saw Frank Ford lead her apart, when the sport broke up ; they took
the path towards the meadows ; and if Frank Ford's the man I take him
for, and Alice May the gentle girl I know her to be, why then he has
not rested, nor she stinted, till he won her to tell him the secret of your
play, as you call it ; which, I take it, has been a tragedy to him."

'' Serve him right 1 She's a silly wench if she let him off so easy/*
said Margaret ; '* after so wild and groundless a jealousy as his. He'll
plague her with some of these yellow whims, by-and-by, if she take not
good heed ; mark my word."

''She will take good heed; Alice is as discreet as she's gentle.
Come, corae, Meg ; wish her not to be harsher with her lover than thou
wert with thine, when he besought thee to speak out."

'* He deserved that she should still have carried on the jest, and play-
ed out the play, for his behoof, ere she came to the last speech ;" persist-
ed Meg, smiling; "best not hurry on the fifth act."

" Nor wise to keep it too long in delay. Remember his impatienoe
that the comedy should end with what is its right conclusion, — a happy
marriage ;" said Page ; " and talking of that, reminds me to ask thee,
Meg, when wilt thou fix the day that shall make thee mine? Frank
will be for having his wedding on the same day as ours j and in pity to

«t»4 MEG AND ALICB;

his jealous qualms, — which will hardly be quite set at rest till he inakat
sure of Alice, — we must appoint an early one."

^ Only in pity to him ? Is there no one else thought of, in thia
haste to fix the day ? " asked she archly.

'^ No, I protest to thee, Meg ; I could be content to wait patiently
ton, t^relvc, nay. as many as twenty-four hours, ere we went to ohuroh.
I would not hurry thee, sweet Meg, only let it be ere the week oome to
an end, an thou lov'st me."

'- Seeing that this is Friday evening, master Page, I thank thee for
thy latitude ; " she said, laughing ; ^^ but see ! here come Frank and
Alice. Alack, for my play ! It is played out indeed ! Who can fail *o
read Mmpendiug matrimony ' writ in both those tell-tale faces? "

George Page hastened towards them, to perform his duty of host in
securing Frank and his blushing companion a scat at the supper-table ;
and as he did so, he contrived to convey by his expressive look and hia
hearty shake of the hand, his congratulation on the right understanding
to which all of them had happily come.

On the following day, Frank Ford asked Alice of her father, in form;
and while he stepped into farmer May's house to do this, he left his
mistress in company with George Page and Margaret Gay, having all
four been walking together. Of course it was by the merest chance that
the young people had met ; but as they had fallen in with each other, it
was agreed between them that they would saunter on for an hour or two
through the pleasant glades of Windsor park, so soon as Frank should
have performed his errand of hope, and rejoin them.

During his absence, Alice May had walked on a few paces, in roatio
goodnaturcd fashion, leaving the lovers to follow by themselves; but
George Page overtook her, and passing her arm within his own. while on
his other arm he had Margaret Gay, he declared that love should not make
him so unsociable as to let Alice May walk on by herself; and that he
insisted on escorting them both, until her rightful companion retarned.

Now it happened, that as the young farmer was proceeding thua, witb
a merry maiden under each arm, all three gaily laughing and chatting;
reckoning over the many pleasant neighbourly hours they had all apent

THE MERRY Mi^IDS OF WINDSOR. 455

together, and looking forward happily to the many more they still hoped
to spend thus, living near each other, who should come by that way, but
mistress Poll Quickly, with a large basket on her arm, coming over the
fields from Frogmore, where she had been to fetch some cream and but-
ter that was wanted.

She spied Page from a distance ; and also saw clearly enough who
were his companions, and how familiarly they were all linked arm-in-arm ;
and she said to herself: — " Lord, Lord, if that wicked young fellow be
not in sober verity, no less in love than he said he was, with the merry
maids, two at a time ! If he be not about to delude them both, I'm no
better than I should be, which I am, I praise Heaven for it ! To see
the wantonness of this wicked world would make a body pray to be blind,
in Heaven's mercy ! To think of him ; and to think of them, letting
him bring 'em into such a canaries, is what I should never have thought
of two such seeming innocents. But merry and honest too, is rarer than
black swans, it's my belief"

As she approached the group, however, some of her virtuous horror
oozed out ; giving place to that easy tolerance, which her desire to be
on popular terms with everybody, made second nature to her.

'^ A goodly company, and a fitting, for such a fine warm morning as
this ; " she said, as she came up with the party, dropping a curtsey, and
smirking at them. " It's well to be a heathen Turk, and a Christian
farmer all in one, when a handsome young Englishman would fain look
well in more than one fair pair of eyes; and as long as virtuous maids
are willing to be friendly and peaceable, and rather agree in their liking,
than fall out and pull caps because one man happens to please 'em both,
why, such amical doings is a blessing, I say ; and long may you all go
on kindly together, I pray."

" I'm afraid I shan't be able to persuade both my Sultanas to marry
me, Turk as I may be ; " said Page, laughing; "but I hope I may say,
I think they both like me well ; and I swear that shall content me.'-

" That we do, mistress Polly ; we both love George Page dearly and
heartily, and he loves us ; dost thou not, master Page? " said they.

" Right truly, on the faith of an honest man and a farmer — an Eng
lishman and no Turk ! " he replied.

456 MEG AND ALICE i

<^ Well, rest ye merry, good geDtlefolks ; " said Poll Qaioklj, bob*
bing a parting curtsey, and feeling rather baffled by their unconstrained
manner and laughing words. '^ But if black swans are not white angelfl
to those two merry maids, (Heaven forgive me for saying so !)" she con-
tinued to herself, as she pursued her way, ^^ why then I'm no judge of
birds and angels, or maids either — shy birds and sly birds as mistress
Alice May and mistress Margaret (}ay both are."

Presently she met Frank Ford ; who having prospered in his Buit,
and obtained farmer May's joyful consent to wed his daughter, was com* '
ing along with an alert step, and a beamingly happy face.

" Poor young man ! " she thought, as he approached, and she observed
his well-pleased air, '* he wouldn't look so cheerily, an' he knew what
games his sweetheart's going on, when his back is turned, to his studies.
Worthy scholar 1 he little thinks his learning won't teach him to fiEithom
the wickedness of young girls, nor his books serve him to see through
their double-faced masks. I've a month's mind to help him to an ink-
ling. Give ye good-ruorrow^ master Ford ; " she said aloud, as she eame
up to him; ''you'll be for taking a i roll through the park, this fine
morning, I warrant me ; and if you take the glade leaving the castle to
your left, I shouldn't wonder but you'd stumble on a sight that'll make
your eyes open as wide as from now till Martlcmas."

'^ Indeed, good mistress Polly; and what may that be? It were a
sight to be looked for, in good earnest."

'* Troth, master Ford, it's a sight for a good man to see ; a young girl
hanging on one man's arm, when if she's an honest girl she should be in
another man's arms. And what should you say, master Ford, if I was
to tell ye, that such a young girl's name is Ghiy ; and that the young
man's name with the arm she is leaning on, is no other than Page; and
that he's not even content with that, but he must be having two of 'em
at once, like a dog in the manger as he is — a merry maid tuckejd under
each arm ; Lord forgive us ! What say you to that 9 "

'• I think it's very hard he should get both the merry maids of Wind
sor to his share ; " said Ford, laughing. '^ 1^11 after him, and seo if hm
won't give me up one of them."

THE MBRRT MAIDS OF WIND80K. 457

'* Alas, master Ford ! Would you take up with his leavings ? '' asked
Poll.

" I mean not that ; " answered Ford. " I shall take one of the merrj
maids from him, and leave him the other ; and then, thou know'st, he
will have my leavings.''

^ Ah, your worship's a 'cute master of art, and which is more, a bach-
elor ; and which is more, a collegiate ; no fox is more knowing, I praise
Heaven for it ! You'll outwit them yet, I shouldn't wonder. To see
what learning and logic is, good heart ! Well, Heaven speed ye in
shaming the wicked, righting the wronged, and giving all of 'em their
due, I pray ! "

" Amen ; " said Ford, with a laughing nod of farewell to her as he
ran on to overtake his friends.

It was not long, ere the two pair of lovers agreed upon the day
which was to make them joyful husbands and wives. And when the
day arrived. — the friends and relations on all sides assembling and form*
ing a goodly procession ; the two brides attired alike, with knots of
memorial rosemary fastened to their sleeves, as was the wont ; and a
rich bride-cup of silvergilt, in which was a brancfi of rosemary gilded
brightly, and hung about with ribbons, borne before them ; — it was al-
lowed on all bands that two more comely bridegrooms, than young master
Ford and young master Page, two fiiirer brides than young mistress May
and young mistress Gay, or two handsomer happier couples than these
young people, had not been wedded in the old church for many a day.

Thus, the two merry maids became the merry wives of Windsor ; for
with their new dignity came no shadow to cloud their spirits ; their
housewifely cares sat easily on two girls so thriftily and notably bred ,
their matronly duties were but light demands upon the time of those sc
skilled in domesticity, — so home-loving, so home-adorning in their simple
affections and accomplishments ; and they who had been known among
the neighbours for the blithest lasses, were still noted for being the
gayest-hearted women in all that fair Berkshire town. Tears flew by,
and scarce brought any change in their good looks — none at all, in their
g')od-humour and merry-hearted cheer.

458 MEO AND ALICE;

Alice was hardly more smiling as young mistress May, than she was
as mistress Ford ; Margaret was not a whit less ready for a playful jesi,
or a laughing frolic, when she had been for many a summer mistress
Page, than when she was young mistress Gay.

Somewhat more crumby, plump, and buxom, perhaps, they had be*
come in their fair proportions ; the white shoulders were more ample ;
the arms rounder ; the cheeks had a fuller outline, and, mayhap, a less
delicate tint of rose ; while neither of their waists were quite so remark-
able for slenderness as they had been ; yet still, when there was a danco
in the old barn, or a game on the green-sward, Meg and Alice were still
as alert as ever in the share they took in such sports, for they foand
their husbands were to the full as well-pleased to see them there as for-
merly, and never found that their figures had become more portly, or
their steps less active.

Frank Ford had been, in the course of time, left so well ^fi by his
fatlier, that he was able to maintain his wife as a gentlewoman, withoat
any necessity for his following his father's profession of lawyer; while
George Page, when his father died, determined from choice, to follow
his vocation, as farmer, bailiff, and land-steward to sir Marmaduko Duoan-
drake. The office brought him in a handsome revenue, and its daiiei
were well suited to his tastes and abilities. Both the friends lived in
ease and comfort, and were reputed men of wealth and substance in
their native town ; while their wives had households, and attires, after
their own wish, with money and time entirely at command, to spend as
they pleased.

The wedlock of Ford and Alice had been unblessed by offspring ;
though it seemed to be scarcely a matter of regret to them.

Mistress Page had, a year after marriage, brought her husband m
little girl ; who became the pet and darling of the whole family. As to
her grandfather, farmer Gay, he would have scarce had baby Anne ft
moment out of his sight, so proud and so fond was he of the yonng
prattler.

It is frequently seen in a large family, that the first grandchild bora
is received as a sort of fairy-gift, a precious God-send, a kind of wondtf

THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 459

and miracle. It seems a strange creature among so many grown-up per-
sons : and the elders, having been so long accustomed to see their own
children men and women, regard this new little being as almost a curi-
osity, at first ; and welcome it as a renewal of their first paternal joys
ever after.

For a long while baby Anne enjoyed this pre-eminence ; for some
time she was the only grandchild, — the sole pet and plaything of the
family ; the darling, the idol, the dear little creature who was in danger
of being spoiled by all the household, as the single representative of
childhood among all those grown people.

But she was a good little soul, a sweet simple child ; one of those
pleasant natures, that it is well-nigh impossible to render less pleasant,
even by the most inveterate spoiling that a tribe of doting relations car
infiict ; one of those single hearts and pure dispositions that remains
uncorrupted by injudicious yielding ; taking no advantage, learning no
tyranny, but seeming to flourish and ripen into a thousand good quali- *
ties beneath the sunshine of indulgence. Nothing could prove this bet-
ter than the birth of her little brother William. After eight or nine
years of undisputed sovereignty, another child appeared, to share her
rule over the hearts of the fond parents and grand-parents.

But far from seeming to regard this little one as an intruder, or in-
fringer upon her rights of affection, no one welcomed the baby boy with
greater delight than Anne, — now no longer baby Anne, but sister Anne.
She nursed him. she hugged him, she lugged him about, and would fain
have had him never ont of her arms, in spite of the hint which mistress
Quickly once gave hei mother, to the effect that "if little mistress Anne
was allowed to bear about young master in that sort, from pillar to post,
alas, no ram's horn, nor no curly-tailed pig would be crookeder than that
child's shoulder, good heart ! "

So far from grudging him the notice, of which she herself had
hitherto cr. joyed exclusive and undisputed monopoly, little mistress
\nne would take him from one to another to be admired ; she would
present him to each of the family in turn, that his pretty staring eyes,
his button of a mouth, or his funny little nose might be duly inspeoted ;

4G0 BIEG AND ALICE;

and when the lauoation of the whole household. — ^from father and rootliCiT
and ^andad and granny, down to each of the women-servants, and eren
the farm-lahourers when they came in from the fields to their noontide
meal, — had all been exhausted, then would she trudge forth, and totter
from neighbour to neighbour, with him in her arms, that they might
have the advantage of beholding this treasure of a baby-boy, and do all
homage to the wonder and delight of her having a little brother.

She learned to dress and undress him ; to lift him in and out of hia
wicker cradle, to dandle, to rock, and to toss him. No one could get
Willy to sleep so well as Anne ; no one could still him so well when he
roared ; no one could amuse him so well when he was awake ; no one
could hush and soothe him so well on his way to that infant bourne,
'by-bye;* or watch and protect him from disturbance so efiectually when
he was once there, thoroughly off, taking a sound nap. She made him
as smart as a doll, as neat as a lying-in pincushion, and as clean as a
* new-scoured dairy-pan ; so that ho looked to be always in holiday-trim ;
as if each day he was ready for that first church-going, and first partj*-
his christening.

She was deep-learned in his first winks of intelligence, his first blinks
of notice, his knowing stares at the candle, his unflinching gaie at the
sun. She knew the very first moment of his having uttered his first
coo, smiled his first smile ; and when some daring sceptic ventured to
hint at this being very like a gape, and another suggested that it might
be a writhe of the lip occasioned by some slight convulsion, or other in-
ternal discomposure, Anne stoutly declared it was a smile, and nothing
but a smile, and that it was in all probability the result of Willy's at
that instant beholding an angel.

She it was who declared the precise time of his first distingnishing
his mother's face from that of any one else ; she it was who proclaimed
his beginning to notice father, and then herself, and then various other
members of the family, and then a numerous circle of acquaintanoe to
whom she introduced him, when she found he thus enjoyed the sweets of
society. She caught first sound of his earliest articulated Ta ! Pa !
and Ma 1 And when she had, with infinite pains, taught him to nttef

ik.

THE MERRY Mi^IDS OF WINDSOR. 461

other more recondite sounds, and reach a high perfection in still further
elaborated accents, she had always a choice stock of his smart sayings,
his saucy answers, his pert witticisms, on hand, to repeat for the delight
and entertainment of his friends.

There was only one person who could never be brought to see as
much perfection in her little brother William as Anne could wish ; and
this was her grandfather Oay. The old man persisted in looking upon
the boy as a sort of rival to his first darling, and he was often heard to
mutter, " he should like to know whatever that brat came for ; not but
what the child was well enough, a fine healthy baby and all that ; but
still, what should he come for, and put his darling's nose out of joint?
People were all so fond of the young shaver — and all for why ? He
was a boy— -an heir, forsooth. But he'd see, that he would, whether his
own darling Anne couldn't be made an heiress of, as well as the best
boy that ever drew breath !" And when the old farmer died, it was
found that he bad made good his words, as far as in him lay, by leaving
Anne Page inheritrix of all his hoardings, to the amount of full seven
hundred pounds.

When it became high time that William should be removed from her
superintendence, and placed under more erudite tuition than a sister, —
however devoted, — could supply, Anne still took charge of him as far
as possible. He was sent to school with sir Hugh Evans, — now become
village schoolmaster in place of Peter Scriven deceased ; and every
morning might Anne Page be seen, leading her little brother by the-
hand, carrying his satchel for him, chatting, and laughing, and beguiling
the way, as he leaped and jumped at her side, looking forward to the
time when she should come, in like manner, to fetch him back again, af-
ter the school-hours were over.

Both the children liked parson Hugh ; all the children in Windsor
liked him ; he was good-humoured, fond of his pupils, and more peppery
in manner than really strict or severe. He loved better to give them a
holiday at some good-natured friend's asking, than to scourge or even
scold them for non-attendance, or non-attention at their lessons. He
would affect to cross-examine them very closely, upon occasion, and

462 BfBG AND ALICE;

show tlicm off before their parents, but he would put leading questionii
and ashist them to easy answers. He was not too grave to join in their
sports, or too wise to find entertainment from their diversions. He
w^uM give a helping hand at cricket, or a helping kick at foot-ball. He
would doff his learned gown, and, — stripped to his doublet and hose,^-
skimc about the field as nimbly as the youngest of them, at prison-bars ;
or fly over the backs of his scholars, taking his turn at leap-frog. ' He
was irritable, but kindly ; wrathful when roused, but easily placable ;
furious in words, quiet in deeds ; fond of a sly practical joke, but utter-
ly devoid of malice.

He was proud of his acquaintance with Robert Shallow Esq., justice
of the peace in the county of Gloucestershire. Could not forbear boasts
ing to the boys of his having been to the same school with that worship-
ful personage ; used to tell them of certain boyish pranks he and the
squire had played together (tho' there was a great difference in their
ages) in old school-days ; held up justice Shallow's young cousin, master
Slender, as a model for all young gentlemen ; told them his friend the
justice had promised to pay him a visit at his poor school-house at Wind-
sor some day or other, should any occasion bring him up to court ; and
that if ever such an auspicious event should occur, he would grant them
a holiday on tho strength of it. At which, all the boys would set up a
roaring huzza, and cry, " long live parson Hugh and his noble friend jus-
tice Shallow !"

The friendly relations between this last-named worshipful gentleman,
and master George Page, had also been kept up during the years that
had elapsed since his first visit to the squire's place in Gloucestershire.
Master Robert Shallow did not forget that it was Page who had brought
him the sum of money, which, after the first enthusiasm of obliging a
court knight with its loan, he had had misgivings he might never see
again ; and therefore, beside the personal liking the young man himself
had inspired, there was always associated with him in justice Shallow's
mind (if such a thing may be included among his attributes) the idea
(still admitting such possible existence) of an agreeable, and almost un-
hoped-for, piece of good-fortune.

»■ M-.:

THE MERRT MAmS OF WINDSOR. 463

Presents c f game, a fine buck in season, or a goodly cheese of Olou-
cester, would often travel up by wain from the knight's seat, for master
Page's acceptance ; while courtesies of acknowledgment in the shape of
some new recipe or hint in farriery, some dog of superior breed, either
for coursing or wood-cock shooting, a thorough-bred beagle, a good point-
er, or handsome fallow greyhound, would be sent in return from Windsor
to the squire, or to young master Slender.

On the squire's side, there were the reasons above-stated, for the
friendly feeling he preserved towards master Page ; and on the other, the
good yeoman — who was, like many men of wealth and substance, fond of
opportunities for increasing it — sometimes found himself reflecting that
the justice's cousin, master Slender, was now a young man grown, that
he inherited a good estate from his father, that he would come into a
round sum of money at his mother's death ; and then he would specu-
late upon the eligibility of such a spouse, and the possibility there was of
securing such a match for his daughter, by bringing about a marriage
between her and master Abraham Slender.

Meantime, Anne Page, unconscious that any such scheme occupied
her father's thought respecting her, still found her own chief happiness
in the lo 3 and care of her young brother William.

On one occasion, as she was bringing him back from school, he asked
her to go with him into one of the meadows that lay a little out of the
way leading between the school-house and their home, to look at a bird's
nest he had spied in the hedge the day before. Anne complied ; at the
same time saying she hoped William did not want to take the nest.

" No, no, only to peep at it, and to show it to you, Nan ; it lies so
lightly yet so snug, just among some brambles, that stretch across the
dry ditch ; nobody would think of looking for it there, though the place
is so open to the passers-by, — the path runs close to it."

Coming along this path, the brother and sister met mistress Quickly,
who was rather a favourite with the young girl ; for she could not help
being amused with all the odd scraps of gossip and village news, which
were sure to form the subject of talk.

" And how is young mistress Anne ? And pretty master, too ? Strong

464 KEG AND ALICE;

and hearty, I trust ; and like the rose, I see. And, I praj, how doet
good mistress Page, and honest master Page — jour worthy father and
mother ?"

'' All as well as heart could wish, I thank yon, mistress Quickly ;"
answered Anne.

Nay, mistress Anne, no thanks to me ; though if their well-being
stood with me, it's a sorry account of sickness, or sorrow either, they
should know by my good will ; — but let that pass."

William having eagerly pointed out the nest, in its sly nook, to hii
sister^ now began climbing up a young ash-tree that stood near ; to cni,
from among its branches, a switch that took his fancy ; and while he waa
doing this, Anne Page and mistress Quickly proceeded with their obat.

^' And how are you going on yourself, mistress Quickly ?" asked Annei
*• I think you told me you had left the Star?"

" Ay. ay, that I did, or it would ha* left me ;" replied she. " When
that rampaging, rollicking, roystcring chap came down to set up. — came
over from Staines, and opened this fine* new hostelry, the Garter,*— why
it stood to reason that the shine was clear gone from the old Star. It
twinkled and twinkled, and faded and faded, and grew dimmer and dim-
mer, till it was clear to me that it would soon pop out. It was snuffed
out, puffed out. and clapped an extinguisher upon, by the blazing doings
of that rantipole host of the Oarter, yonder f said mistress Quickly,
pointing with her chin to the quarter of the town where the rival Inn
had started up.

'' And so you quitted the Star ? " said Anne.

'' That I did in truth ;" replied mistress Quickly ; the Star
sphere that never suited me, for a bar-maid's life is not a life for
honest maid ; too much hard work, and too much idleness, in all the idle
things that are said, and looked, and chucked under the chin of a maid
at an Inn, which you'd find, Anne, if you wasn't a rich farmer's dangb-
tet that never need come to such a gradation to gain yonr honest
bread."

'^ I thought I heard from some one, that yon were trying to get •
place at the new hostelry ? " said Anne.

THE MERRT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 465

'' And 80 I did ;" returned mistress Quickly. '^ For tho' a bar-maid's
place isn't a pillow, nor jet a bolster, let alone a station for a civil, mo-
dest, virtuous young woman, which I detest I am ; still when maids are
going a begging, places of some kind, or no kind, or a bad kind, are bet-
ter than no places at all, and must be taken, by a poor maid that has no
place else to put her head."

" Then gaffer and gammer Quickly are both dead?" said Anne.

" Ay, that they are, blessings on their hearts ;" said mistress Quickly.
^^ I'm alone in the world now ; not a Varsal soul left of us, save my sis-
ter Nell, and her husband, Bob Quickly, that live up in London, at the
Boar's Head, and he's lately dead."

" Do you not sometimes wish to see your sister ? you might perhaps
get a place in London near her ;" said Anne.

'* What should I do, burdening a poor widow in Eastcheap ? " said
mistress Quickly. ^^ I'll rather slave my fingers to the bone, and live on
the flesh of 'em, than go to be a burden on her who has nothing to give
or to spare."

'' Well said, mistress Quickly ;" said Anne.

^^ Nay, I've as much proper spirit as my neighbours, I hope ;" said
mistress Quickly ; '^ and wouldn't think of going to trouble one who
hasn't a doit but what she wants for herself"

'' And can't you find a place to suit you here 7" said Anne. '' There
must be plenty of good places in Windsor for such an excellent house-
keeper as you would make, mistress Quickly. I will speak to my good
mother about it.

*' Blessings on your heart, and on hers too, for your kind intent ; "
replied she. " But I'm not without my hope of getting a place that
would suit me to a tittle, which I have in my eye. There's a parlous
clever French doctor come down here, in attendance on the court, they
say ; one master doctor Caius is his name ; and I'm told that he wants
a good creature that'll keep his house in order, and do all for him ; for
he has no wife to take care of him, and make his house what it should
be : and I'm to go there to-morrow and offer myself. The service will
be hard — a great charge, — no other woman-servant but myself kept ; buf
1 sliall try for the place, and do my duty by it, when got."

466 MEO AND alkte;

** I've no doubt you will ;" said Anne. " And pray how is mist;
P )rd ? Mother and I haven't seen her a whole age — it mast be fall
four days. Have you seen her since ? "

^' Troth, mistress Anne, that I have. And its in pecks o' trouhleft I
found her, and what is more, bushels of canaries, about parting with
that gill-flirt maid of hers, who she thought was a treasury, but who I
said all along was a trollop and a trumpery. Alas, the sweet woman
was much deceived in the baggage ! Oceans of ribbons, and hogsheads
of finery and frippery would never have contented the vanity of that
wench ! But she's been sent tramping I'll warrant you. This was my
doing. What, said I, will you waste both wage and food upon a good-
for nought, and a ne'er-do-well, and a gill-flirt, that spends all she has
upon ribbons, and fly-by-skies, and gimcracks ? But even this mightn't
have opened mistress Ford's eyes, — who's too sweet a soul by half, for
the wicked ones of this world, who are on the watch to cheat the over-
kind and over-soft, like mistress Ford, blessing on her heart for it ! — if
it hadn't been that the wench made away with a ring of master Ford'8|
and a gilt set pocket-glass of her mistress's ; and then at last they be*
lieved me, and sent her off at a minute's warning, bag and baggage."

^' Then mistress Ford is without a waiting-maid, now ?" asked Anne.

'' I helped the sweet woman to another, I give Heaven praise ;" said
mistress Quickly. " I named to her that Tib Prat wants a place, and
would suit hers ; Tib, the niece of mistress Prat of Brentford, yon
know ; you've heard of her — some folks call her the fat woman of Brent-
ford— and some evil-minded people go so far as to call her the witoh of
Brentford — but they're no christians, no, nor no conjurers either, that
would fix the name of witch — however fat she may be — upon mother
Prat, poor old soul."

Her brother William, having now cut his switch, and also chosen a
good stout ash stick that he thought he would clip and polish for hui
father's use, Anne took him by the hand, and bidding mistress Qaiokly
farewell said she would call over at mistress Ford's that afternoon with
her mother, and learn how their friend was getting through her domestia
troubles.

THE MERRT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 467

" Ay do 80, of all loves ; it'll be a obaritj ;" said mistress Quickly ]
"^ the sweet woman has been yearning her heart to see your good mother
I know."

^' Nan," said William to his sister, as they pursued their way home
together, ^^ shouldn't you like to go down into Gloucestershire, and see
that capital old deer-park, and that famous dog-kennel, and all the plea-
sant jolly things that that old justice has got down there at his place ?
I should ! I wish the justice would ask me, and that father would let
me go for a visit. I should like to stay there a month. It would be
so jolly. And I should like to know master Slender. Father has told
me about him ; he seems to be a funny kind of a chap."

^^ He seems to be little better than a fool, from what I can hear of
him ;" said Anne, laughing ; '^ and mother thinks so, too ; I can sec ;
for all father, with his kind heart, tries to make the best of it, in what
he tells us about him."

^' 0, I shouldn't mind that I I shouldn't mind his being a fool, a
bit. Nan He'd make all the more fun — and I love fun ! And then,
some folks say, fools are mostly good-natured, and perhaps he'd be good-
natured to me, and let me play with his dogs, and ride his horses, and
lend me his rod ; I dare say he has one, and I do so want to fish."

" I think that's a mistake, Will, about fools being good-natured ;"
said his sister. ^* I have a notion that fools are obstinate, opinionated,
and apt to be sulky, and no man who's either of these can be good-na-
tured."

*• Is master Slender any of the three ?" asked William.

" I know nothing of him. I never saw him, thou know'st. But I've
a fancy I shouldn't like him. If he*s a fool, I'm sure I shouldn't ; and
I have a shrewd notion he's that. '

^' Still I should like to go and see him and bis uncle, at their nice old
place ;" said William, as they reached their own door.

While this conversation was going on in Windsor, matters were tak-
ing place in Gloucestershire, which, so far as William's seeing the per-
sons in question, were likely to bring about his wish.

Justice Shallow had been made somewhat uneaiiy by having his at

468 MEG AND ALICE;

tention aroused in djmptoms of a preference springing up between hii
cousin, Abraham Slender, and a certain Alice Sbortcake, a baker'i
daughter, who lived in the nearest village to Shallow Park. The old
gentleman would never have had the perspicacity to make this discovery
for himself, but the lynx eyes of a mother had acquainted mistress Slen-
der with some particulars which she thought betokened the fact, and she
forthwith consulted her cousin Shallow upon what had best be done to
save her son, and the darling of them both, from the ignominy of such a
match.

She had come home in a state of vast perturbation, one evening, from
a large party that took place in the neighbourhood ; she was full of in-
dignant grumblings, irate murmurs, and wrathful objurgations, against
'' mixed society." '^ shameful carelessness in associating people of coose-
quence with nobody knows who,'' and such-like outpourings against the
promiscuous nature of the assemblage, which she and her son had been
invited to join. It is more than probable that the worthy lady's growls
would have been suffered to pass unnoticed, according to custom, had
not justice Shallow's curiosity prompted him to enquire a little into their
cause, in this instance. For a fit of the gout had prevented his accom-
panying his cousins to the party ; and he felt the usual anxiety of a pro-
vincial gentleman to hear the news, ** all how and about " his neigh
hours

The aifair had been a festivity, to celebrate the season of Hallowmas.
The master of the house was a country gentleman, more hearty than
nice in his notions of hospitality. He thought the chief merit of an
assemblage of the kind consisted in its comprising all the prettiest fitoes,
and all the gayest sparks, and all the best dancers, and all the pleasant-
est partners, and all the merriest hearts, and all the jolliest topers that
could be collected for miles round, to fill his old hall, and to enjoy his
good cheer, and each other's society ; and he accordingly asked eyerj
one oHf the hansomest girls, and coraeliest young men, gentle or simple,
that he knew. lie was not particular about birth or station ; provided
they were good-looking, good-humoured, it was all he asked — and ht
forthwith asked them.

THE MER&T MAIDS OP WIND&i^R. 469

After danoing came all kinds of sports, and charmed spells proper tc
AU-hallow Eye. There was the nut-burning ; the stealing out of the
kiln all alone in the dark, to wind the clue of blue yarn, that the mys-
terious hand might seize the thread, and the mysterious voice might do-
olaie the christian name of the future spouse ; the solitary winnowing in
the barn, that the apparition of the destined lover might appear ; with
other magical rites and observances.

It may readily be believed that master Abraham Slender offered a
tempting mark for the tricks and jests of many a merry young damsel
among the company. But there was one especially, who made it a point
to single him out as a butt for her waggery in all the schemes for hoax-
ing and bantering which she conceived, and the occasion warranted.

This girl was named Alice Shortcake, who, though no higher in rank
than a baker's daughter, had yet more than sufficient guarantee for her
admission to this party in her more than ordinary share of good looks.
She was a bouncing, bright-eyed, cherry-cheeked damsel of about fifteen ;
she had tiptop spirits, no inconvenient misgivings about delicacy, or
good taste, or refinement, or fastidiousness ; she cared not a jot for any
one of them, and it is highly probable that she had never so much as
heard of them.

Her eye in an instant fastened on master Slender as excellent game ;
and she resolved never to leave him, until she had played off the whole
artillery of her AU-hallow Eve jokes, upon his devoted person. He was
her target, her quintain, — destined to receive the whole shock of her wit-
buffets, and practical -jest-blows.

She was abetted in all her plots by a lusty young miller, her swain and
sweetheart, who relished as heartily as herself these devices against the
joung squire ; resolving that when Alice Shortcake had done with him,
he would have a turn at him himself, and see if his pockets as well as hit
person, mightn't be made to yield good sport. There was a bowling*
green, and a skittle-ground, and a racquet-court, and a shovel-board-
room, all attached to this house, in either of which, master Slender might
be turned to account, by some means or other.

They managed so well between them, that before the night's revels

470 HEO AND ALICB*.

1^

were over, master Slender had felt his breast pierced thro* and thro' by
Alice Shortcake's bright black eyes (though mingled with a sort of dread
of them, too), nnd his purse well-nigh emptied bj the skilful handling of
Yead Mijler.

There is not space to enumerate half the tricks the young girl played
npon him. One penalty he evaded by very simplicity. When she pro-
posed to him to perform the charm of dipping his shirt-sleeve in the
running brook, and watching it dry by the fire, alone, that he might be
hold the image of his future wife come and turn the garment, he said : —
'^ 0 but I might take cold, you know ! And tho* I'm not such a weakly
creature as you might think, to oare about the risk ; yet, to stand shiv-
ering without a nether garment of such consequence, and for so long, ia
a hazard my mother wouldn't let me run. Beside, who knows whether
the sleeve might be quite dry when I put it on again, — and so another
chance of rheum and cold-catching ! Truly, for my own part, I care not
to risk it, I thank ye."

Another penalty, which would have secured himself a prize, he alao
missed, from the same cause.

Alice Shortcake had engaged him in the performance of a spell, which
was to be conducted in the following manner. He was to take a candle,
go into a room by himself, where there was a looking-glass ready set ;
in this glass he was enjoined to keep his eye steadily fixed, to comb his
hair, and eat apple, all the while, until he should see the face of his des-
tined bride peep over his shoulder.

*• But what if I come to the end of the apple, and no face appears f"
said he. ^' An apple is soon eaten ; and then what am I to do 1"

'^ You'll find a supply ;" said Alice Shortcake, pushing him into the
darkened room ; where, by the light of a single glimmering rushlight
shaking in his hand, he found a mirror hung with black, close beside
which, stood a dozen or more of apples, and a comb.

'* There's enough of 'em, sure enough !" he muttered, setting down
the candle. ^' I hope the bride's face will show itself soon ; I shall nevec
get through all those, else."

He stood opposite the mirror, looked at himself therein, as steadily

THE MERBT MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 4/1

M he could, took the Comb in one hand, drew it through his long flaxen
locks, lifted an apple in the other, and, digging his front teeth into the
peel, took a resolute bite.

" Pah !" exclaimed he, just about to sputter forth the mouthful, '^It's
a crab, I verily believe ! Sour as verjuice 1" But, bethinking him that
he might break the charm, ho swallowed ; with a wry face took another
bite, scrunched that, and swallowed ; and so went he on, combing, and
scrunching, and swallowing, and keeping his eyes faithfully fixed ol the
glass, with not one instant's loss of gravity at the wry faces, or yellow
hanks of tow hair, combed through with stolid perseverance, which were
reflected before him.

Not so his tormenter. She was not proof against this combination
of delicious circumstances. She had crept on tiptoe behind him, to watch
the working of her spell ; but when she beheld its actual fulfilment, — so
far beyond the most sanguine expectations she had allowed herself to
form, even from her victim's promising appearance, — the sight was too
much for her powers of risible controul, and she was fain to scamper out
of the room and throw herself into the young miller's arms, to have her
laugh out in the passage, where he was waiting for her.

'' He's at it still ;" she whispered, between the burst of giggles that
she vainly endeavoured to suppress, for fear they should reach the dark-
ened room ; '•' for the love of laughter, go and have a peep I But restrain
thy guflaw, lest he overhear, and cease crunching. I'd have him eat till
he burst ! And, oh, look at his goggle grey eyes peering through his
lank hair, that he keeps combing and combing right over them. What
a dear ninny 'tis ! I could have smacked his face, and pelted it with the
apples, for very delight at him, had I not hoped to see him munch 'em
all up. Go, go ! But, softly ; I pr'ythee !'*

But just as Yead Miller stole to the door, he met master Slender
stealing out, muttering : — ^^ I shall as soon venture at it, as any man, for
so rare a sight ; but oholic's a fearful thing — it nips shrewdly — and I'll
eat no more. Hullo ! What's that ? Oh, it's you, Yead Miller."

^ Ay, it's only me, master Slender ;" said the fellow, as gravely as he
could ; ''• but what else have you seen ? Anything ? any one ? What sort

472 MEO AND ALICE j

of fftce was i1, peeped over your shoulder? LeVk know, what likd mis
tress Slender is to be."

<< Truly, I saw no face, not I ;" replied lie. I saw nothing. I heard
something, indeed ; but "

« What, what ? What was it like ?"

^ 'Mass, it was most like a girl smothering a laugh ; and my mind
misgave me, that it was no spirit, but a true fleshly woman ; and i*faith
I'd ha' proved it, by turning round and catching hold of her ; only, it
isn't seemly to lay hands on a woman against her will, and before she'f
aware ; and so, I let her be, forsooth. But I half repent me ; for if it
was that merry black-eyed thing that I am in two minds it was, I'd ha'
a squeeze or a kiss for my pains ; but then mayhap, she'd have slapped
or pinched, for women are despiteful things when they're vexed."

" Ay, truly are they, master Slender, and vexed enough she'd ha' been,
had your worship revenged yourself that way ;" said the miller. " Best
as 'tis. And now let you and me away to the shovel-board room. I've
some right good smooth new shillings, fit for play, that your worship shall
have for the nonce, an' you will."

" Nay, I'll be well-pleased to buy them of thee, Yead Miller ;" said
master Slender. ^' I love the game well ; and shall be glad to make the
bright broad pieces mine own."

These several attacks upon her son, had not escaped the notice of
mistress Slender; and they were what caused her to be so highly incens-
ed against the indiscriminate assembly, where a miller and a baker's
daughter had had an opportunity of playing off their tricks upon so ex-
alted a personage as the young squire, master Abraham Slender. She
had not failed to perceive also the impression created by Alice Short-
cake's black byes ; and this it was which she confided to her cousin Shal*
low. beseeching him to aid in averting the frightful consequences to
lehich it might lead.

The worthy justice promised ; but just at that time, it happened,
that his attention was diverted from the subject of his young cousin's
possible en th raiment, by the unexpected advent of one of his old town
acquaintances, sir John Flastaff, who, with three of his retainers, eamc
down to Gloucestershire on a long-promised visit.

THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 478

This visit proved auything but agreeable to the host. Matters were
darried with so reckless a hand by the knight and his riotous followers,
— they committed so many^ extravagances, bred so much disorder. — and
behaved with so little regard to decency, that instead of the amicable
terms on which the two gentlemen had hitherto maintained their inti-
macy, they parted, this time, with threats of seeking redress on the one
side, contemptuous defiance on the other.

Master Robert Shallow brooded on these wrongs, and meditated
means of obtaining the vengeance he sought. He thought he would go
up to Windsor, where the court at present was, and state his wrongs in
the proper quarter ; he bethought him, that thus he might enjoy the
pleasure he had often promised himself, of seeing master Page again,
and at the same time fulfil an engagement of long-standing with sir
Hugh Evans, his old school-fellow, who looked forward with pride to
having him under his roof He had just made up his mind (again the
word slips in unadvisedly, speaking of the worthy gentleman) on the
many eligible features of the plan, when one more circumstance was
added, which made him decide upon the Windsor expedition as the
wisest possible device, to obtain his own wishes, and to remove his cousin
at once from a dangerous vicinity.

It happened that justice Shallow, wnile making the above reflections,
was pacing up and down a sunny open space in his deer-park near to the
high road, when he heard voices ; one of which was a woman's, and the
other he recognized as his cousin Slender's.

" Nay, but master Slender," he heard the damsel's voice say, " I'm
sure your worship won't refuse me so very a trifle as a puppy."

" I know not about trifles, mistress Alice ;" replied the voice cf
Abraham Slender ; " but I know the dog's as good a dog as any in
Gloucestershire — be the other the best hound that runs — ^and I can't
part with him to be given away to Tead Miller, which, I know, is what
you'll do."

" Not I, i'faith ;" replied Alice ; " I want him for a pet for myself ;
and you won't refuse me — me — eh, master Slender ? " And the tone of
voice became very appealing. '^ I'm sure I couldn't refuse you a dog, or
anything else that you asked of me, master Slender."

474 MEG AND ALICE;

" But jou have no dog — and I ask no dog of yon, mistress Alice ; **
said Slender.

" Bat is there nothing else you would care to have of me, mastei
Slender ? I would fain show you I can refuse you nothing, if I may
coax you to part with the dog, for IVe taken a fancy to him."

^^ He's a gift of master Page's, and I daren't give him away, lest my
cousin Shallow should chide ;" said Slender ; " and as for aught else I
oould wish of you, beside a dog — there might be something I could fancy,
but that I overheard Yead Miller once say, if any man ever took sueh
a thing of you. he'd take him a blow of his cudgel should last him hit
life."

^^ And what was it no man was to get of me without Tead Miller's
good leave, I trow ? "

" If T tell you, will you give me your word not to be angered f
You'll be curst, mayhap, if I say the word ; many women can't abide to
hear it spoken."

'^ What is it, good master Slender ? " said the voice in so coquettish
a strain as did not forebode any violent offence, should he muster oonr*
age for the utterance.

" Marry, no less than — a — a — kiss ;" faltered he.

A little shrill scream followed, which seemed to scare master Slen.
der, and which he hastened to appease, by exclaiming : — ^ Nay, it wms
his word, not mine, and I'll sooner be hanged than make it my deed, if
you'll only cease screaming, and toll me you're not angered I"

^^ Pshaw I " muttered the voice of the damsel, as she seemed to fling
from him, and quit the spot.

Presently, the long legs of master Slender appeared above the top
rail of the stile which divided the park from the road ; and in another
moment, himself came into the open space where his cousin Shallow
was, who said, as he approached : — ^* What woman was that you parted
with just now, coz ? "

" Woman ? I know of no woman ;" said master Slender, with more
than his ordinary sheepishness of aspect.

'^ Come, come, that shall not serve, cousin. Come oousiii,
cousin, confess, confess."

THE MERRY MAIDS OF WINDSOR. 475

^ I know not what to confess ; " said master Slender.

" Confess that you care more for that wench, than you*d have me
know of, coz. Confess that ; I know who the woman is. Confess that
you like her too well. Confess, coz ; confess."

" I know not what 'tis to like any woman. I know not what 'tis sc
much as to look at a woman in the way of liking."

" Do you look at them in hate, coz ? "

^' Nay, I know not that ; but I know not what 'tis to look upon them
in any liking. " •

^'I doubt that, coz; I doubt that. This wench seemed quite at
home with you, methQught. "

" Oh, we've met before. I don't mind the young woman. I — I-t-
care not that she should not come near me ; but I never seek her, not I.
If she come after me, so ; if she have a fancy for me, why so, too ; I
can't hish her away from me like a dog, can I ? Or bid her not follow
me, can I? You would not have me rough to her, would you, uncle?
It's an ill thing to be rough to a woman, uncle, I can't abide to be
rough to a woman."

*' Well, you needn't be rough, coz : but you needn't encourage her,
neither. What I would have you do, is not to encourage the girl, ooz.
Do you mark me ? Do you conceive me, coz ?"

" Very well, uncle."

" Why, well, then ; let her not fancy that you encourage her. For
it would not sort well with the honor of an old family like ours, coz, —
that may quarter, and write himself esquire, ooz, — for master Abraham
Slender to wed with Alice Shortcake, the baker's daughter."

" You know her then, uncle ?" faltered master Slender.

" Marry, that I do ; and I will pardon all, if thou wilt pleasure me,
coz, by going with me to Windsor ; where sir Hugh Evans, a worthy
friend of mine, shall show thee, as a good churchman should, the sin and
wickedness of marrying beneath your degree, and the weakness of tri
fling with a girl's hopes. It is very wanton dealing, both."

^^ But ere I go with you to Windsor, uncle, I would fain get back a
book of mine, that I lent to Alice Shortcake. It's a choice garland of
riddles that I took with me to make merry with, at the All-hallowmai

476 MEG AND alios;

fpftflt : she wouldn't be gainsaid but that I should let her have it for
awhile. We so laughed oyer it together, that it passed."

''Well. coz. thy man Simple shall go oyer, and ask her for it in ihy
name ;" said justice Shallow.

" I doubt if she'll give it to any one beside myself;" muttered Slen-
der ; " she sets store by the volume, I know ; and in truth, it's a dainty
book of riddles. It's well-nigh as fuH of sweet conceits, as my book of
^ongs and sonnets, with its pretty faMal-las, and hey-nonnys, merry tol-
dc-rolsj and witty rhyme-burdens. I care not to be without it, on any
occasion of gravity and moment, like a journey ; or of pleasantry, Buch
as meeting with new acquaintances. And I dare to say we shall pick
them up as rife as daisies, at Windsor. I shall have need of my book,
uncle "

'• And thou shalt have it, coz. Peter Simple shall fetch it thee.
Never fear, never fiiar. And by'r lady, 'tis well thought on, and 'tis well
thought on. indeed ; thy man Simple shall attend us to Windsor. We
shall need a tru.«»tv varlet ; and he is one, he is one."

And thus the journey to Windsor was settled.

There, meantime, some changes had taken place. Sir Marmaduke
Ducandrake died. As he had never married, and had no son, the estate
fell to his nephew, of the same name, a young man about town, with a
i^londor purse, and expensive tastes, to whom this windfall was most wel-
come. He came down to take possession, bringing in his train, a number
of idle young companions, whose gay manners and congenial pursuits bad
won his living. Partly from conviction that it could not be in bonester
hand.**, partly from indisposition to any exertion of body or mind, which
a change must have produced, the young gentleman left the management
of his affairs still with master Page ; merely renewing his engagement as
bailiff to the estate.

Among the young gentlemen who had accompanied their friend, the
new sir Marmaduke. down to Windsor, was one master Fenton. He
was gay, but not heartless, like the rest. He was of gentle birth ; had
somewhat wasted his patrimony in town pleasures, thinking some day te
repair his fortunes by a wealthy marriage ; but possessed a nature eapa

THE MERRY MAID8 OF WINDSOR. 477

ble of being touched, and rendered generous, by excellence. He had
met Anne Page more than once by chance, coming with her little bro-
ther from school ; had been struck with her simple beauty ; had formed
acquaintance with her, and begun to flatter himself that she found nearly
as much pleasure from it as himself; while gradually it struck young
William, that his sister left him oftener and oftener to find his way to
b.nd from school by himself, unless his mother would be his companion,
which she frequently was.

On one of these occasions, when Anne Page had forgotten that it
was the hour for fetching her brother, because she happened to be walk-
ing with master Fenton in the meadows, whom she had by the merest
accident met there, it befel that mistress Quickly came upon them, just
as the young people parted.

^ A fair day to fair mistress Anne, is a fair wish, and i is mine, in
good sooth ;" said she ; ^' I need not wish her fair company, for that she
has just parted with, I see ;" added she, with a sly glance in the direction
of master Fenton's retreating figure.

'^ Wilt thou step with me to our house, and see my good mother, mis-
tress Quickly ? She will be glad to see you, I know."

'' And what would she say to me, I wonder, did she know whom I
have just seen exhorting her daughter in her walk?" said mistress
Quickly ; " truly, I think, she'd chide if she knew how co^iely a young
gentleman I find him ; for well I know, all her wish is, that her daughter
should find my master, master doctor Caius, the comeliest man in Wind-
sor."

" Qood lack I mistress Quickly, how wouldst thou I should find any
comeliness in such a grimacing ape and chattering pie as that, and
withal a splay-footed duck, for his gait and his quackery V said Anne
Page.

^' Nay, pretty mistress Anne, it is none of my wish that thou shouldst
find any likelihood in the Frenchman — for all he's a d.>ctor, and more
than that, my master. But by my truly, I think your good mother
would have you like him, for all that."

^^ I fear me, she would ; but in truth I cannot ;" said Anne.

,1

I ■

PASSAGES IN THE PLAYS

Of RSLATION TO

PACTS, NAMES, AND SENTIMENTS,

WITH WmOH IT WAB BBQUmHB THB TALE SHOULH AOOOBII*

TAUL

1^ 83, " Now, Balthazar,
linie 26. As I have ever found thee honesty true,

So let me find thee stfll" — ^Mebohamt of Veniox, Act S., & 4

Page 49, '* An iinlef!8on*d girl, tmschoord, mipractis'd f
line 4. Idem, Act 3., 9 i

Page 54, " It is your music, madiim, of the house.*
line 3. Idem, Act ▼.,&!.

Page 66, '* Do you not remember, lady, in your &thei^8 time, a Venetian, a

line 30. scholar, and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of
Montferrat T — Idem, Act i, s. 8.

Page 77, " This house, these servants, and this same myself
line 19. Are yours, my lord; I give them with this ring.** — Idem, Act Si., a 2.

Page 79, ** There is a monastery two mileB off*
line 10. /(£mi, Act fii^ fli 4.

PageSO, "Whoooroeswithberl None bat a My Amn<«, and her maid."
hne 19 Jdem, Aet T., & 1

482 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES.

PAge 85, " So is the will of a living daughter curVd by the will ci a

line 13. father.** — Idem, Act l, a. 8.

Page 87 " Take this same letter,

line 20 And use thou all the endeavour of a man,

In speed to Padun; see thou render this
Into my cousin's hand, doctor Bellaria"— /ciimi, Act iiL, n 4.

TALBIL

Page 12S, " Had he not resembled

line 16. My &ther as he slept, I had done*t" — Maubetr, Act iL, 8 S.

Page 160, lliere is historical authority for the name of Macbeth's u. other bemg

line 11. Doada ; that of his wife, Oruoch ; and that of his son, Cormae.

Page 164, " We will establish our estate upon

line 20. Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter

The prince of Cumberland.** — Macbeth, Act i., s. 4.

Page 169, " The Norweynn lord, surveying vantage,

line 26. With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men,

Began a fresh assault.*' — Idem, Act i., s. 2.

Page 169, " The merciless Macdonwald

line 28. (Worthy to be a rebel ; for, to that.

The multiplying villanies of nature
Do swarm upon him) from the western isles
Of Kernes and Gallowglasses is supplied.** — Idem^ Act L, a f

Page 170, " What beast was it then.

Ifoe 7. That made vou break this enterprise to me ?

When you durst do it, then you were a man ;
And, t() be more than what you w(Te, you would
Be so much more the mnn. Nor time, nor plirt\
Did (hen adhere, and yet you wouM miike them both :
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now
Does unmake you," — Idem^ Act i, s. 7.

TALE HL

Pige 248, Kinff, ** I would I had that corporal smmdness now,
!ine 16. As when thy father, and myself, m friendship

First tried our soldiership 1 He did look far
Into the service of the time, and was
Discipled of the bravest.** — All's will that ktds weli* Ad U ^ ll

ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES. 488

Pige 246» " He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to

line 16. be so: Gerard de Narbonne.** — ^/cfem, Act L, s. 1.

Page 256, The countess RousiUon addresses her steward as ** Rinaldo."

line 24. Jdem^ Act iiL, ^ 4

Page 267| " £Us arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
line 26. # * * # heart too capable

Of every line and trick of his sweet favour."— /cbm, Act I, a 1.

Poge 268, " You remember

line 23. The daughter of this lord f

Bertram. Admiringly, my liege : at first
1 stuck my choice upon A<r, ere my heart
Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue :
Where the impression of mine eye in&unff.
Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me.
Which warp'd the line of every other favour;
Scorn'd a fair colour, or expressed it stol'n ;
Extended or contracted all proportions.
To a most hideous object: Thence it came.
That Bhc, "whom all men praised, and whom myseH^
Since I have lost, have lov'd, was in mine eye.
The dust that did offend it.

King, Well excused:

« « « « «

Send forth your amorous token for fair MaudLin^^^Jdem^ Act v., s. 8.

Page 270, The king, quoting his friend, the late count RousiUon's opinion of

line 14. young fellows at court, says he called them:—

** Younger spirits whose apprehensive senses
All but new things disdain ; whose judgments are
Mere fathers of their garments ; whose constancies
Expire before their fashions." — Idem^ Act L, & 2.

Page 270, Bertram disdainfully and ungenerously says, when refusing to take

line 22. the poor physician's daughter for his wife: —

" She had her breeding at my fotber's charge." — Idem^ Act ii., a. 8.

Page 270, " Whose beauty did astonish the survey

last line. Of richest eyes ; whose words all ears took captive ;
Whose dear perfection, hearts that scom*d to serve,
Humbly caUxi mistress." — Idem, Act v., & 8.

Page 273, Vide the scene in the fourth act, where the soldiers are cross^ues-

line 22. tioning the blindfolded Parolles. They are there called by their names

of **Dumain;* but among the Dramatia Penoon, they are styled

484 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES.

'^ young French lords, that serve with Bertram in the Florcotiiia wan f
and in the scenes where they appear, the prefix to their several speeGfaas
merely stands thus : — 1 Lord, 2 Lord. Their moral ezcelleDce ia beat
proved in the conversation they hold together ' respecting Bertram' at
the beginning of this scene. It is 1 I^rd, the elder captain Dumaii^
who utters the celebrated sentence: — "Tlie web of our life ia of a
mingled yarn, ^ood and ill together : our virtues would be proud, if our
faults wliipped them not ; and our crimes would despair, if they ware
not cherished by our virtues."

}*age 275, Parolles, on his return to Rousillon after his disgrace, addresoDg the

line 12. clown, says : — ** Good monsieur Lavatch, give my lord Lafeo thia let-

ter."— All's well that ends well, Act v., s. 2.

Page 280, ffel, ** Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,

line 7. Which we ascribe to Heaven : the fated sky

Gives us free scope ; only, doth backward pull

Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull
« « « • «

Impossible be strange attempts, to those

That weigh their pains in sense : and do suppose

What hath been cannot be." — Idem, Act i, s. 8.

Page 282, " My father left me some prescriptions
line 16. Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading,

And manifest experience, had collected
For general sovereignty ; and that he willed me
In heed fullest reservation to bestow them.
As notes, whose faculties inclusive were.
More than they were in note : amongst the rest^
There is a remedy approv'd, set down,
To cure the desperate languishes whereof
The king is renaer'd lost"— 7<ifm, Act i, a 8.

Page 283. King. ** How Irmg is*t, count,

line 4. Since the phvsician at your fathePs died t

He was much fam'd.

£er. Some six months since, my lord." — Idem^ Act L, c t.

Page 288, Countenn, ** Her fother bequeathed her to me : and she hcrselC witb-

line 1 5. out other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love aa ehe

finds : there is more owing her, than is paid ; and more shall be paid
her, than shell demand." — Idem, Act L, s. 8.

Page 285, Lafeu asks Parolles (Act ii. s. 3) ** Why dost thou garter up thyarmg

line 8. o* this fashion ? dost make hose of thy sleeves T* And in the fifth aoeoe

of the fourth act, the old lord tells the countess: — "No, no, no, your aoo

was misled with a mipUtaffata fellow there ; whose villiinoai mfrcm

ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES. 486

would have made all the unbaked and doughy youth of a natioo in hif
colour : your daughter-in-law had been alive at this hour ; and your sou
here at nome more advanced by the king, than by that red-taxied hum-
ble-bee I speak oV*

Vmgt 287, The clown says to his mistress, the countess, " If I may have your

line 1. ladyship's good will to go to the world!* [said to be a cant phraae^

meaning, ' to be married,'] ** Isbel the woman and I will do as we may*

All's well that ends well, Act l, s. 8.

Page 289, " This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold linguist, and the ami-

line 26. potent soldier." — Idem, Act iv., s. 8.

Page 290, ** Of six peceding ancestors, that g^em
line 8. Conferr'a by testament to the sequent issue,

Hath it been own'd, and worn." — Ideniy Act v., sl 8.

TALE IV.

Page 306, '* So much duty as my mother show'd

line 21. To you, preferring you before her father.** — Othello, Act L, s. 8

Page 820, ** She is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, that she

line 17. holds it a vice in her goodness, not to do more than she is requested."

Ideniy Act uL, s. 8.

Page 838, ** My mother had a maid called, — Barbara :
line 21. She was in love, and he, she lov'd, prov'd mad.

And did forsake her : she had a sone of — * willow,'
An old tiling 'twas, but it expressed her fortune.
And she died singii^ it" — Idem, Act iv., s. 8.

Page 842, " So delicate with her needle ! — An admirable mnsidan I O, she will

line 18. sing the savafeness out of a bear ! — Of so high and plenteous wit and

invention 1" — Idem, Act iv., & 1.

Page 344, ** A maiden never bold ;

line 5. Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion

Blusn'd at herself" — idem. Act i., s. 8.

Page 345, " She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd ;" with the rest of tlif

line 30. speech preceding in context — Idrnn, Act l, s. 8.

Page 847, " 'tis most easy

line 28, The inclining Desdemona to subdue

In any honest suit; she 's fram'd as fruitful
As the frt% elements." — Idem, Act ii., ^ S.

i8b ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES.

Page 848, ** That sooff to-night,

line 82. Will not go from my mind : f hsve moth to do^

But go hang my head aU at one aide,
And sing it, like poor Barbara." — Idenif Act ir^ n 8.

Pkige 864, " This Ludovico ia a proper man. • « « I know a lady in Vttt>

line 12. ice, who would have walked barefoot to Paleatine, for a touch of hit

nether lip.'* — Idem, Act iv., a. 8.

Page 874, This idea is in accordance with an ingenious suggestion of Mr. Charlei

luie 24. Knight's, conveyed in anote to Act third of *OtheUo { Pictorial Editm^

Page 876, " These things to hear,

line 9. Would Desdemona seriously incline :

But still the house affiurs would draw her thenoe:
Which ever as she could with haste despatch.
She'd come again, and with a ^eedy ear
Devour up my discourse:" Othello, Act i., ii 8.

Page 876, logo. " She did deceive her father, marrying yon ;
line 29. And when she seem'd to shake, and fear your looks,

She lov'd them most*

OtK And 90 zh$ didr^Idem^ Act iii., s. 8.

In these four little syllables, is involved Deedemona's fiite. Had her
husband been able to refute lago's charge of the tacit deceptaon aha
once practised, all would have been well Thus subtly, but imprea*
aively, does Shakespeare draw the moral of his characters and their
history.

Page 877, Sorrowfully is the reader referred, — \n oonfinnatioo,— to the colloqti^

Um 18. between Othello and Desdemona (Act iii, s. 4); where he demanda tht

handkerchiet

OtK " Lend me thy handkerchiet

Det. Here, my lord. •

OiK That which I gave you.

Det, I have it not about me.

0th. Is't lost t is't gone f Speak, is it out of tfa* wi^ I

Dm. Heaven bless us I

Otk. Say you f

Doo, It it not lost; but what an if it weral

0th. Hal

Do§. 1 9ay iii§ ti44 hit

ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES. 487

Oik Fetch*t» let me see it

J)e9, Why, 90 lean, sir, but I will not now."

Not five minutes before, she has asked Emilia where .she could hare
lost that handkerchief adding: — ** 1 had rather have lost my purse fbU
of crusadoes." Profoundly mournful in its meaning, — as we may inter-
pret it (morally, though not dramatically), — is her husband's subsequent
exclamation: —

" Had she been true.
If Heaven would make me such another world
Of one entire and perfect chrysolite,
rd not have sold her for it"

Fage 879, What! Michael Cassio,

line 2. That came a wooing with you ; and many a time

When I have spoke of you dispraisingly.
Hath ta'en your parC — Othello, Act ill, s. 8.

Page S79, "Three g^reat ones of the city,

line 11. In personal suit to make me his lieutenant

Oflf-capp*d to him." — Idem, Act L, s. 1.

Page 380, * Did beguile her of her tears,

line 4. ««««««««

My ftory being done.
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs."

See the whole exquisite description of that " pliant hour," ns gnm
by the wooer himseli — Idem, Act L, s. 8,

PAge 880, ** This was her first remembrance from the Moor;
line 21. # * # # ghe so loves the token,

(For he conjured her, she would ever keep it)
That she reserves it evennore about her,
To kiss, and talk to." * # # ♦

* a handkerchieC
Spotted with strawberries.** — Idem, Act iiL, ^ 8.

Page S80, Bra. * Gall up my brother.**— 7(2fm, Act L, n t
line 27.

Page 881, •'Send fbr tlie lady to the Sagittary.**— /dun. Act L, n H
hne 10.

488 ILLUSTRATIVE N0TB8.

TATJB V.

Plige 885, Shakespeare's commentators have spent much labour in endeayonr-

line 10. ing to reconcile the discrepancies of detail in the character of oiistreM

Quickly, as it appears in the three plays of Henry IV. (1, 2,^ and Y.,
and in the comedy of the * Merry Wives of Windsor/ supposing iden
tity of person. Here, the gordian knot has been cut, by making them
two dinercnt women, — sisters: one, the spinster of the comedy; Ihti
other, the hostess and widow of the historical plays.

Page 898, The christian names of mistress Ford and mistress Page are thus de-

lines 6 <fe 6. termined. When Mrs. Ford says : — *• I could be kni^ht^ f her friend
replies: — "What? Thou liest I sir AUce Ford T And afterwards, in
the same scene, Page addresses his wife, with : — " How now, MegT^^
MsaaY Wives, Act iL. s. 1.

Page 896, We find the christian names of master Ford, and master Page, Hioa

line 8. indicated : — MrB. Page. " Whither go you, Oeorge f — Hark you."

Mtb, Ford. •* How now, sweet Frank t Why art thou melancholy T

Idenij Act ii., a. 1

Page 404, " Three of master Ford's brothers watch the docH* with pistols;**

line 4. Iderrit Act iv., n t

Page 484, " And how doth my good cousin SUence t

line 21. Sil. Good morrow, good cousin Shallow.

Shal. And how doth my cousin, your bedfcUowf and your fiurest
daughter, and mine, my god-daughter Ellen f « « « I dare say,
my cousm William is become a good scholar." — Henry IV., Act ill, & 2.

Page 435, Slender says : — ** I keep but three men and a boy yet, tUl my m^tktf

line 8. be dead. — Meebt WrvES, Act l, s. 1.

Page 461, " Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred pound f
line 18. Evans. Ay ; " — /(i«n. Act L, s. 1.

Page 462, Vide first scene of the fcurth act, in * The Merry Wives of Windsor'
Une 8.

Page 462, "How now, sir Hugh I no school to-day ?
line 21. Fvans. No, master Slender is let the hoys leave to pl^V^ —

Mkebt Wivxs, Act ifi, c 1

Page 468, Slen. ** How does your follow greyhound, sir f I heard say, be WM

line 6. out-run on Cotsale." — ^/cbm, Act i, & 1.

■.A

ILLUSTBATIVE NOTES. 489

Pkige 468, SluU^ **We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and

Une 17. mj cousin Slender, and tlus day we shall have our answer.

SUru I hope I have your good will, &ther Page.

Paae, You have, master Slender : I stand wholly fpr you : but my
wire, master doctor, is for you altogether.** — Idenij Act iii^ s. 2.

Page 468, Mrs, Ford, ** My maid's aunt, the fat woman of Brentford; * • •

line 28. *♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

Mrs, Page, Come, Mother Prai^ come, give me your hand.**

Idem, Act iv^ a S.

Page 462, Simple, " Book of riddles ! Why did you not lend it to Alice Short'

line 2. cake upon Allhallowmas last.** — Idem, Act i, s. 1.

Page 472, ** Two Edward shovel-boards " [the broad shillings of Edward VL,

line 17. sometimes called so, because they were used in playing at the game of

shovel-board ;] ** that cost me two shillings ana two pence a-piece of
Yead Miller J" — Idenij Act I, s. 1.

Page 478, "I will make a Star-chamber matter of it : if he were twenty sir

line 10. John Falstaffs, be shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire."

Idem, Act L, a 1.

Page 477, ** Besides these, other bars he lays before me,-»
line 2. My riots past, my wild societies;

And tells me, *tis a thing impassible
I should love thee, but as a property.

Anne, May be, he tells you true.

■Penton, No, heaven so speed me in my time to come !

Albeit, I will confess thy father's wealtn

Was the first motive that I woo'd thee, Anne .

Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value

Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags;

And 'tis the very riches of thyself^

That now I aim at." — Idem, Act iii., a 4.

Plige 478 ** He cannot aUde the old woman of Brentford ; he siwears ahtfu i

Ifae 10. witch."— /<20m, Act iv., a S.

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